Foes, Formidable
by Coquillage Atlas
Summary: The sequel to Ink, Invisible...  In the Opera House, trouble is brewing, and Katelienne is in the thick of it! Luckily, she's not alone, but will she make it through this turmoil unscathed?
1. Chapter 1: L'inspecteur

_All right, my readers, this sequel is set in the middle of the epilogue from the last story (__**Ink, Invisible**__, if you haven't read it yet), so Erik and Katelienne are not yet married, or even – gasp – engaged. _

_Also, it has only been a short while since the events of the previous story's second-to-last chapter (i.e., just after they both "revealed" their names to each other). _

_Furthermore, you may have noticed the change in the chapter names in Ink, Invisible – you should Google what each flower or plant symbolizes in order to understand what I mean. _

_I hope you enjoy reading this sequel! Criticism/praise is welcome!_

_ - Your thankful author, Coquillage_

* * *

><p><strong>Foes, Formidable<strong>

* * *

><p>Luke's eyes found mine, the clear blue irises gleaming in the dim light from the candles. He leaned forward, touching my cheek with the tips of his cold fingers; his teeth glinting as his lips drew back into a smile.<p>

I shuddered and twisted my head to the side, trying to get away from those horrible, groping fingers.

He caught hold of my chin and pulled, forcing my head upward, but my eyes stayed stubbornly on the shoulder of his coat.

"What's wrong, Katelienne? Are you actually _afraid _of me?"

Out of the corner of my eye, I could see him tilting his handsome head to one side as he tried to see into my eyes. His fingers tightened painfully around my chin.

"Look at me," he breathed. The smell of mint wafted unpleasantly into my face. "Do you know how easy it would be to simply _snap_ your neck right now? How little control you have over me? Look at yourself – you're completely at my mercy. Completely… _mine_."

I spat at him.

The saliva spattered onto his shoulder, little spots darkening the blue cloth, sinking into the fine material.

We both held our breath for a moment – Luke in amused surprise, I in terror. Then he dropped his hand to the tile and picked up the gleaming knife.

I had never known before that metal had a smell; an odor rancid with pain, acidic with fear, seething with the cold tanginess of steel. I wished I had never found out.

Luke held my face still with one hand and raised the knife with the other, setting the tip under my left eye; lightly pressing it into the skin.

The metal sang shrilly, burning into my cheek like ice; I fought the urge to close my eyes or scream. Everything within me had suddenly fused into one single, all-consuming thought: Don't move.

Luke pressed the knife down slightly harder. I thought I felt it prick the skin.

Abruptly, I found it was impossible to breathe at all.

"You're so pale, dear," Luke observed detachedly, his white forehead bent so low that it nearly touched mine, so intent was he on my distress. "Are you fond of that eye? If so, I could take the other, instead. Perhaps an ear would be better, no?"

I made no answer. It was becoming harder to think – the knife had twitched a little when he spoke.

Luke shook his head and took the blade from my cheek. "You're _so_ boring, Katelienne! I grow tired of this game."

I closed my eyes and leaned my head back against the wall: I was in no hurry to see what he had planned next, and I was not willing to give him the satisfaction of my fear. Let him hurt me. Soon he would have his due; soon he would suffer like I had suffered.

But he was not moving; I did not hear the sound of fabric rustling, only the sound of light footsteps. Footsteps! I opened my eyes.

"Your noble rescuer approaches," Luke said, dryly, looking to the right.

I turned my head.

* * *

><p>It was true, the Phantom walked towards us, barely visible in the gloom.<p>

But as he came closer, I saw his form ripple and change. He shortened, grew thinner, stooped a little; his hair lightened and thinned.

He walked into the light, and my heart sank.

Cooper.

"_Finally_," the newcomer said, as if he had just interrupted a rather tedious business transaction. "It's time to go, Luke; he's waiting downstairs."

Luke picked up the knife, straightened, and took a slow step away from me, as if readying himself for something.

I looked, hopelessly, at Cooper.

The thin, balding man smiled benevolently at me, the lenses of his glasses winking gently in the light. "Goodbye, Katelienne."

Luke's mouth curled in an equally depraved smile, rivaling Cooper's horribly false one. He looked down at me, studying my face as if for the last time.

He spun the knife between his hands, and took a step forward.

"Goodbye, Katelienne, dear," he whispered.

He brought down the knife.

* * *

><p>I woke in a panic, hardly able to breathe, the thunder of frantic heartbeats pounding in my ears. It was still night, late night, and my room was so quiet it frightened me. I fought my way out of the blankets and staggered blindly to the balcony door, pushing it open with both hands. They shook as they made contact with the cool glass.<p>

* * *

><p>The night air, though frigid, calmed me.<p>

I shivered on the balcony, staring out across the silvered rooftops, my arms around myself. It had been two months since Luke's and Cooper's deaths; but I had not experienced such a vivid nightmare about them until now.

I had thought (rather ignorantly), that their deaths, violent as they were, would have freed me from the vile mixture of grief, rage, and pain that had plagued me for so long. But now, it seemed to have only intensified – their deaths had both been caused by my proximity, my place in those final moments on the hotel rooftop. And there were questions now, questions I would never know the answers to.

Had Luke ever truly loved Claire?

Had she guessed at his true nature?

Had Cooper ever felt remorse for his actions in helping Luke?

Why had he even assisted him in the first place? I would have certainly chosen jail over covering up an innocent woman's murder; but Cooper had bent so easily under Luke's blackmail.

But the question on the forefront of my mind; the one that would not leave me alone, was something of a smaller (and yet) a more immediate nature. And this one, unlike the others, could be answered.

Where was the Inspector?

I turned restlessly from the city, rubbing my hands down my arms. The Inspector had mysteriously vanished after his defeat; even my and Madame Giry's visit to the police station had produced no results. Rather, the policemen had assured us there was no such inspector as Inspector Bulstrode, and that there had never been such a man at all.

Needless to say, we left rather quickly after that.

Erik and I had, begrudgingly, (on my part, not his) agreed to lay aside the Inspector problem for now, and focus instead on the Opera House.

Namely, my job.

* * *

><p>"And on avoiding reporters," he had said, frowning. "I never thought the results of your engagement to the Opera's vanished manager would have been <em>this<em> interesting to the public."

I sighed in agreement and poked at the eggs I was frying. It was Tuesday night, and we were in Erik's kitchen, relaxing after a long day.

"I didn't either," I said over my shoulder. "Can you find the pepper for me? And you know Paris is only all astir because they have nothing better to talk about. It's the same everywhere – the only thing they ever talked about before was you. _The Phantom of the Opera – what will he do next? It's so entrancing!_"

Erik laughed and opened a cabinet, bending over for a moment to dig the missing pepper out.

"Don't flatter me; it will go to my head. Here you go. But, truly, Katelienne, you can't find the Inspector now; you have work to do and people to avoid. I thought you told Cooper you'd finish those new ads tonight."

I scraped the spatula against the bottom of the pan and turned an accusing gaze on him. "You weren't there when he said that. How would you know?"

"Guilty," Erik said, holding up his hands in mock surrender. "I was there; only not in sight. I was passing by, and I… happened to overhear."

"You're a liar," I said, and lifted the pan off the stove. "I know you were spying on me. You're going to have to stop doing that, or I'll have to do something about it."

"What?"

His tone was light; his voice ripe with amusement.

I laughed, a little self-deprecatingly, and started scooping the eggs onto the plates, shaking my head. "I knew you wouldn't take me seriously. No, but really, Erik, you don't need to listen to my conversations. Not only is it unnecessary, but it's also a little creepy."

"I'm not creepy," he protested. "I'm not. And you still have to finish those ads."

"I'll finish them if you stop spying on me," I said, holding out my hand. "Bargain?"

Erik took my hand and shook it, rather longer than he needed to, and grimaced. "Bargain. Now can we eat?"

"Now we can eat," I agreed, and sat. "Tell me about your day, why don't you?"

* * *

><p>But now I stood on my balcony, alone, and the threat from the nightmare was still sharp in my mind. It would be necessary to find the Inspector after all: I wanted answers, and seeing as he was the last person I knew who had come into contact with Luke, he would have the most information.<p>

Besides, he was as cruel, or possibly crueler, than Luke had been – he needed to be dealt with. For some reason, he seemed a more formidable enemy than the previous manager of the Opera. Maybe it was his levelheadedness, his easy ability to slip into the character of another person and inhabit it so fully that everyone believed his lies, or maybe it was the way he had spoken to Luke after my kidnapping. He was the man on top, the one in charge, the king piece in the chess game. Luke, Cooper, the other men – they seemed like mere pawns when compared to him.

And he had fooled me (and Erik, and everyone) a total number of _three _times – Luke had only ever managed to foil us once. He had been three different people, all of which were only façades: the grumpy Monsieur Dumont, the comforting Inspector, the menacing Boss of Luke's little group. We had yet to discover his true persona.

And yet – and yet, I could not do so without leaving Paris, without leaving Erik. While I loved him, I was bound to the Opera House, caught within its walls; while he loved me, I could not depart.

Because of this love, I was not free to pursue my enemy.

I looked down at my feet, distraught. It was clear that I was still wrapped in the consuming, utterly relentless coils of revenge. I did not know how to break them, though, or how to stop this cycle of vengeance. I needed… I needed something, but I did not know what.

I did not know how to fill this void.

I turned on my heel and looked down at the moonlit city; busying myself with thoughts of Erik, silly things like the warmth of his smile and the firm line of his jaw, his dark eyes. I closed my eyes and imagined his face.

Perhaps, I told myself, perhaps, it will all be better in the morning.

* * *

><p>Madame Giry was waiting in the breakfast hall when I entered the next morning, her dark hair drawn up into a bun, her face serene. She looked up as I sat down across from her and smiled.<p>

"Katelienne, dear," she said, offering me a roll, "I was wondering what happened to you. Did you sleep late again?"

I took the roll from her and shook my head. "No, I was just finishing my ads. I brought them down to the Count's office this morning. Has anything interesting happened yet?"

A few ballet girls passed, waving at Madame Giry; she inclined her head graciously to them.

"Goodbye, girls. I'll see you in a few minutes."

I broke my roll in half, tore a piece off and popped it into my mouth, waiting for Madame Giry to speak. She did not begin talking until the girls had left the hall; apparently, whatever she wanted to tell me was personal. Or it was about Erik.

She pushed her plate away and folded her hands in her lap. "Yes, there is some news, actually. The Count has found a new patron; but he probably told you that, so I can skip to the next-"

I held up a hand to stop her, managed to swallow without choking, and said, "A new patron? Who is it? No, he hasn't told me."

Madame Giry looked a little flustered. "A patroness, actually. A woman. Her name is Soirée Van Guardant."

"There's something you're not telling me," I said, putting down the remainder of my roll. Her eyes were overbright; her motions slightly erratic. "What is it? Is she awful or something?"

"Well, she is rather odd, but the real problem… the real problem is that she claims to be a seer."

"A what?"

"A seer. A psychic, or something like that, you know. I thought the Count would have told you."

I straightened in my chair, trying to take this in. "No, he wasn't in his office. But… A seer. That is absolutely ludicrous! Er… I hope you don't actually believe in that nonsense."

The woman across from me shook her head emphatically. "No, no, of course not. Also, Lady Van Guardant claims that she was… er… 'drawn here by an irresistible force,' and, as she puts it, her mission is to 'free the Opera House from the terrifying reign of the mysterious Opera Ghost'."

The corner of my lip twitched spasmodically. "Oh… right."

Madame Giry picked up her cup of tea. She appeared to be holding back laughter. "So we may have a slight problem with her after all. And you know we can't ask the Count to find someone else; he had a hard enough time finding this one."

"Yes, I know. I suppose we'll have to deal with her, then. But I can't wait to hear what Erik says about this." I smiled; it was not difficult to imagine the look on the Phantom's very expressive face when he heard the news.

"This is going to be an interesting year," Madame Giry agreed happily, and set her teacup down. "Oh, yes, and the other news is that the new opera we're performing is__ Les élémens__, by Destouches. The Count finally decided on one. I like it."

"A opera-ballet?" I asked, surprised. "That sounds exciting. I haven't seen one of those before."

"Why don't you come down to the rehearsals today and watch?" Madame Giry asked, getting to her feet. "We'll be doing the first scene today."

"Perhaps I will," I said. "But first I'll go see Erik. I have a few things I want to talk about with him."

Madame Giry shrugged her shoulders gracefully. "Alright, then, dear. I'll see you later."

* * *

><p>After breakfast, I stood on the shore of Erik's lake, throwing pebbles into the water, watching the large black circles ripple out into the distance.<p>

_Plunk. Plunk. Plunk. _

"Is something wrong?"

I turned, dropping the rest of my pebbles on the shore.

"There you are. I was about to go in and get you; usually you're out here sooner."

Erik crossed the shore, his lean frame edging carefully around the piles of papers, stopping in front of me. "I was composing in the back – I've finally thought of a new violin piece."

I smiled up at him. "You'll have to play it for me."

"What about tonight? Madame Giry said she'd show up for dinner. Oh, and the Count. I decided it would be best to invite him – despite the fact that I still think he's terrified of me."

I raised my eyebrows. "Of course. That sounds lovely. Do you mind giving me a moment of your time? I need to talk to you."

"About what?"

There was suddenly an inordinate amount of tension in the air; I sensed with a sinking heart that the Phantom was desperately hoping I was not going to bring up the Inspector again.

"Only a few things," I said. "I'll tell you later. But for now, I'd like to go watch the rehearsal. And I remember you mentioned you'd show me the view from the rafters."

The masked man laughed. "I remember, yes. I'll take you up there now, if you want."

"Yes," I said, decisively, and smiled up at him. "And on the way I'll tell you about the new patroness. I'm sure you'll be entertained."


	2. Chapter 2: D'oublier des choses

We stood together on the rafters above the stage, both of us holding our breath, because one of the stagehands had lifted his head towards us.

He was perched a few feet away on one of the rafters, his legs swinging out over the edge, and his light hair glimmered gently in the light from the candle next to him. It was obvious the candle was his – for he blew it out and turned back towards the stage, reaching for a bottle at his side. The liquid inside swished as he drank; the glass clinked against his teeth. We were forgotten.

I allowed myself to breathe again.

"Fool," the Phantom muttered darkly under his breath. "Doesn't he know it's dangerous to have lit candles _and _spirits in the rafters? Only _one_ could start a fire, but having _both _is not only stupid, but also-"

I poked him in the side. He took a sharp breath (of surprise, I thought) and bent to kiss me.

When we both regained our senses, I pressed cold fingers to my reddening cheeks and hastily looked down over the rafters. "Well… that was a pleasant distraction. And you were right; this is a very nice view of the stage. Look, there's Madame Giry."

Erik looked in the direction I indicated and nodded. "Yes, there she is. That was an unexpected – and rather bad – subject change. What did you actually mean to say?"

"I'm only looking for the new patroness," I said, airily. "I'm wondering if she plans to enact a séance to free the Opera from your 'clutches'."

We both shuddered in mock horror, and Erik let out a quiet laugh. "She won't be rid of me _that_ easily. But, really, Katelienne, what is wrong?"

Thankfully, he was distracted by the sound of people coming into the auditorium, and he turned away from me to see who they were. A high-pitched wail rose above the murmur of voices. I winced.

"Oh, _why_ have you not _paid_ him his wages? Do you not _know_ how desperate a Ghost can become when you _ignore _him?"

Erik put his arm around my waist; both of us looked down to watch the show.

* * *

><p>The Count, who had apparently entered the auditorium on a mad whim, was striding down the aisle in front of a very brightly dressed woman, who was trailing after him in a most distraught manner. She had jewels on every finger, her dark hair was piled up about a foot in the air, and clinging to her shoulder was a tiny, gold, fuzzy monkey. She was also gesticulating wildly in all directions.<p>

Erik snorted into my hair. I raised amused eyes to his.

"The patroness, Messiurs and Mesdames," a harried Francis announced to the orchestra, Madame Giry, the ballet girls, and Jeanette (who was staring in obvious dislike at the shrieking woman). "Her name is…"

"_My_ name is Lady Van Guardant," the woman interrupted him in a shrill tone. "And I don't know why we're in here, Francis; I was talking to you about the _Ghost_! You simply _have_ to pay him!"

The monkey wrapped his fingers in her hair and pulled – she winced and untangled him. "Stop that, Fritz."

Francis turned a pleading face to Madame Giry.

She raised her eyebrows at him; her mouth twitched. "Excuse me, Count, but we are practicing, you see. It was an honor to meet you, Lady Van Guardant; now, goodbye."

"I was just leaving," the patroness informed her. "Come _on_, Francis, we have things to discuss."

As she snagged his arm (and the monkey ran over her shoulders onto his), Francis looked miserably around for someone to save him, but no one met his eye.

The conductor bent speedily over his music and raised his baton; Madame Giry corralled her girls into position and turned her back, and Jeanette opened her mouth to sing. There was a smile playing around the corners of her lips.

The music began again, and the Count, a monkey in his hair, was borne forcibly out of the auditorium by his psychic patroness.

Erik listened calmly to her shrieks of woe as they departed.

* * *

><p>"Poor Francis," I said, thanking my stars that I didn't have to deal with a crazed patron. "I didn't think she was going to be <em>this<em> bad. Now he's even interrupting rehearsals to try and shake her off."

"Hmm," said the Phantom, noncommittally, tightening his grip around my waist. "Fancy a cup of tea?"

"No, I think I should go rescue Francis. Want to come? You can hide in the wall behind the prima donna portrait."

"Francis, Smancis," Erik said, and tried to kiss me again.

I squirmed out of his grasp, nearly tripped over a counterweight, and managed to catch myself on a rope before I fell fifty feet to the stage below. Erik (who had attempted to grab my arm, but missed) crossed his arms superciliously and leaned against a post. He refused to look at me.

"Oh, don't be so sensitive, Phantom. I'm going to see Francis now, all right? If I had let you kiss me again, we'd be up here all morning. I'll see you later."

"More like never," Erik grumped, but he sighed and untangled his arms and offered me a long hand. "Want me to come with you?"

"No," I said, but I took his hand anyway and allowed him to lead the way off the rafters. "Francis is already a little frantic, and you know you drive him batty. Let's try to avoid giving him a migraine. But you can – oh, no, I think that stagehand over there heard us talking."

"I can't imagine why," Erik muttered. "Your voice is like a banshee's."

I pinched him, hard. He hissed and batted my hand away, and the stagehand turned around completely.

* * *

><p>Luckily, Erik and I departed (via a rope, among other things) before the stagehand reached our viewing place, and we entered the Phantom's maze of passageways unnoticed.<p>

I let go of Erik's hand and slipped from behind the Liberty tapestry into the hallway.

My entrance frightened a mouse; it squeaked and squeezed through a narrow crack in the bottom of the wall. I wrinkled my nose. It would be nice if someone set out mousetraps in the hallways. I made a mental note to tell the Count about it. We could use the Phantom's newly directed money to do so.

"I'll see you tonight," I told Erik through the thick, moth-eaten material of the tapestry. "For dinner."

"What about lunch?" was his muffled reply.

"I'm going out to eat with a friend," I said cheerily. "I'll tell you about it later. Now scoot before someone shows up and sees me talking to a curtain."

"Tapestry, you mean. What friend? Someone new and exciting?"

"No, the Count, I believe. I'm going to get him away from that woman if it kills me. Good afternoon!"

A melodramatic sigh issued from behind the tapestry. "Goodbye, my dear one. My heart is already breaking at the mere _thought_ of your absence."

I snorted, turned and hurried down the passageway, already thinking of my next problem. How could I disentangle the Count from his patroness without causing a scene? What if she decided to transfer her attentions to me instead? Heavens, I was the one _writing_ about the Ghost. I may as well be wearing a giant sign that read _Badger Me!_ Hopefully the Count had neglected to mention who I was…

But I doubted it.

I had nearly reached the staircase, when there was a soft swishing noise and the Phantom appeared at the end of the corridor. His arms were crossed over his muscled chest, his green eyes on me, his shoulders squared.

I stopped in my tracks, surprised, and then laughed. "What are you doing? I thought you were going back to your house."

"You never told me what you were really thinking about. Back on the rafters."

"Oh, hmm, right," I said, eloquently. "Um. I can't remember what it was, sorry. You'll have to get back to me on that one."

"Fine," Erik said, his expression one of complete disbelief. "Have it your way. But at least tell me tonight, all right?"

"If I remember… what you're talking about," I said, and went past him into the stairwell.

* * *

><p>Erik was right; I had not forgotten about my preoccupation with the Inspector's whereabouts – it was simply that I wanted the Phantom to be in a good mood before I sprung this worry (once again) on him. It seemed to be that after dinner would be the best time; men always took things better when their stomachs were full.<p>

Furthermore, I wanted to speak with Madame Giry. She was married, and she could handle Erik; she knew him best out of everyone. Well, besides me, of course, but she had known him longest. Perhaps I'd get her to come to lunch with me and the Count.

I was so deep in thought I passed the Count's office before realizing I had done so. I turned around and went back the right direction, listening for screeching noises, but Francis' office appeared to be vacant.

I knocked on the door.

"Come in," said an exhausted voice. "Unless…"

"Unless I'm the new patroness?" I asked, entering. "Oh, dear, Count, you look all done in."

Francis was prostrate on his desk. He lifted his head a tiny fraction to glance up at me, and then laid it down again on his arms, very gently. A deep sigh issued from his limp form. I noticed that his shirt was wrinkled, and there was something unidentifiable, brown, and sticky in his hair. Something smelled awful.

I raised my eyebrows and shut the door quietly behind me. "Would you like to leave the Opera for an afternoon?"

"_She's_ out there…" groaned the Count pathetically.

"No, actually, she's not," I said, raising my eyebrows still further. "The hallway's empty."

"No, I meant… I meant she's in the foyer. She'll find me… Her and her monkey…"

It was difficult not to, but I didn't laugh. I merely sat down and folded my hands and gave the Count my best compassionate look. Unfortunately, it was wasted, because his eyes were shut, but I was not dissuaded from my mission. The smell seemed to have grown worse.

"How about this, Count? We'll sneak out through one of the hidden passageways."

The Count raised his head, faint sparks of hope brightening his lifeless eyes.

"Hidden passageways?"

"Yes, how about that? I think that will do well enough, right? And the Phantom wouldn't mind… He's seen the new patroness."

"Why didn't he drop a counterweight on her?" the Count moaned. "He could've killed that monkey too, while he was at it."

I chose to ignore these murderous comments and focused instead on getting him to his feet. "Let's go out to eat. She won't even know you're gone. You can escape for a few hours, and during that time, we can figure out a plan."

The Count, spurred into motion by my words, used the bookshelf behind his desk to stagger to his feet, nearly overbalanced, and bounced off the edge of his desk. The result was that he hit his head on one of the shelves (and cursed weakly); I stifled a laugh and went to help him.

* * *

><p>An hour later, the Count, Madame Giry, and I were sitting in one of Paris' many cafes, sipping our coffee and watching the rain pour down outside.<p>

"It's so peaceful here," Madame Giry commented. "A nice change from the Opera."

The Count and I agreed fervently.

Madame Giry tilted her head questioningly at me. "Is something wrong? One would think you'd rather stay in the Opera with Erik."

"Yes, usually," I said, fiddling with the doily under my cup, "but… There's something I need to talk about with you two."

The Count, recovered from his patroness-induced exhaustion with the aid of some very strong coffee, fixed astute eyes on me. "You're worried about the Inspector."

I frowned, in agreement. "How did you know that? But yes, I am. We don't even know who he really is."

"I'd forget about him if I were you," Francis advised me. "The sooner, the better, I say."

Madame Giry pursed her lips. "He tried to kill her, Count. I would be thinking about him too. But that's no excuse to go looking for trouble, Katelienne. Does Erik know you're worried?"

I pushed my coffee away. "I'm not about to go roaming France in search of him. But I'm not about to simply 'forget' about him, either. And no, Erik doesn't know I'm still thinking about him. Privately, I think he's hoping I forget about the Inspector too. He's worried I might… leave."

"I think you should _try_ to forget, at least," the Count put in. "The Inspector – he's a madman, a lunatic. It's good he's gone."

"For now," Madame Giry said.

She put her cup down and folded her hands in her lap. "Instead of worrying about him, Katelienne, why don't you concoct one of your plans? Just in case he returns to finish the job he started. And tell Erik what you're worried about – he's sure to have noticed, and it's probably driving him crazy."

I sighed. "I'll tell him tonight, after our dinner. I'm sure he'll have something helpful up his sleeve; it's just that I know he doesn't like it when I talk about leaving."

"But you're not leaving," Francis said, confused. "Are you? You better not be; I need you to keep writing for me."

Madame Giry sniffed. "She's not leaving, are you, Katelienne? Tell your boss you're not."

I laughed and waved the waiter over to ask for the check. "I'm not, Count, don't fret. And that reminds me; we have to think of something to do about the patroness. She's absolutely _horrid_."

* * *

><p>On our way home, Madame Giry and I attempted to formulate a plan, but we came up with nothing except for having the Phantom send the patroness threatening notes.<p>

"No, no, _no!_" said Francis, burying his face in his hands. He had not suggested anything at all about Lady Van Guardant; only bit his lip and stared about in blind terror. "Then she'll really lose it!"

The rest of his words were muffled, but I guessed at their gist. I patted his shoulder. "Don't worry. Erik will think of something. We can talk about it at dinner tonight."

Madame Giry sighed happily and looked out her window. "I haven't been down to his house for ages."

Francis sat up so suddenly that his head connected with my hand – I withdrew it hastily.

"Dinner?"

"Yes," I said, wondering what the problem was. "You've been invited to Erik's house for dinner. With Madame Giry and I. And Erik, of course. Didn't you get your invitation?"

The Count groaned and muttered something unintelligible.

Madame Giry continued to gaze out of her window, an expression of pensive joy on her face.

I cleared my throat. "Whatever you just said…"

"It was not about _him_," the Count said tensely. "But don't you find him – a little – erm… nerve-wracking? He's always glaring, and looming, and pacing…"

It was true, these were some of Erik's staple characteristics, but I had grown used to them. I shrugged. "He's not going to hurt you, Count. He's just a little – a little – uncontrolled."

The Count glared out his window and fidgeted.

I sighed (inwardly) and looked out my own window. The rain was still coming down thickly; the heavy sheets of water obscured my view of the road.

It seemed like there was a figure there, in the rain; a menacing outline, dark and grim, hovering next to the carriage. I squinted and leaned forward, but the carriage went around a turn and the shape disappeared in the downpour.

I gripped the edge of the windowsill and told myself that it was nothing.

Even if it had been a person, who would be out this late, and in this terrible downpour?

_The Inspector would. It would be just his sort of fun._


	3. Chapter 3: Gens, grincheux

_Here is the third chapter, up early as usual! I hope you enjoy it!_

_And in honor of Thanksgiving..._

* * *

><p>"Dinner is served," announced the Phantom, setting the final plate of food on the table.<p>

The Count eyed his cup of wine suspiciously; I kicked him under the table, and Madame Giry looked up at the Phantom. "Thank you, Erik. Do sit down, won't you?"

Erik sat. His seat was next to mine, and across from the Count's, which meant that I couldn't kick Francis anymore. So I fixed the Count with a warning look, instead, and lifted my wineglass into the air.

"I think we should have a toast."

Erik's hand found mine under the table and squeezed. I smiled around at my friends and squeezed back.

"To friendship – and to happiness."

We all clinked glasses.

"I'll drink to that," the Count said, downing his wine. Madame Giry smiled brightly at me and sipped hers. Erik drank, set his glass down, and lowered his chin in a bull-like manner.

I recognized that look – I put my glass down and reached for my fork before he could launch into a lecture or something of that nature.

Madame Giry's eyes caught mine from across the table. She winked.

Erik, having seen this, made a small huffing noise in the back of his throat and let go of my hand to reach for the ham.

"What's this I hear about an overbearing patroness?" he asked Francis.

The Count, horrified about being addressed, choked on his mashed potatoes, and Madame Giry was forced to pound him on the back.

When he recovered (and after I refilled his wine glass) he cleared his throat and made an effort to speak.

"She's… aggh… She's awful. Demanding that I give her full rein of the Opera, and that I pay the _Ghost_, as she calls you… She doesn't know anything about opera, absolutely nothing. I've never hated anyone – or anything – before, but I hate her."

Erik nodded sympathetically (I forced myself not to gape at him in surprise) and passed Madame Giry the salt. "So what do you want me to do?"

"We thought," Madame Giry interjected, "that you could send her threatening letters, but Francis pooh-poohed _that_ idea, so…"

Francis self-consciously patted his mouth with his napkin. "I thought it would only make her more interested, you see. I was hoping you had an idea."

"What sort of idea?" Erik asked. "Where would you want it to happen?"

"I'm not sure," the Count said, cutting his meat rather viciously. "All I know is that I want her to act _normally_. We're going to have a winter ball this year – that's only a few weeks away – and the first performance is two weeks from now. I need her to behave."

I swallowed my bite of food and said, "You only need her to act normal for the ball and the performances, correct?"

"Yes," Francis said. "But it would be nice if she acted normal all the time."

"I'm afraid I don't understand why you find her so annoying," Erik put in, fixing the Count with a penetrating stare. "If she's happy, she'll continue acting as patroness, and if she's talking about me, she'll be very happy indeed, won't she?"

Francis nodded, warily.

Madame Giry put down her fork. "So why don't we have you continue to be the Ghost, Erik? You can drop in on rehearsals, and do disturbing ghost-like things, and she can hold her séances. Everyone will be happy."

"Not if she's harping about ghosts at the performances," the Count said. "I want her to tone that nonsense down a bit then."

I frowned. "Wait. I thought you were unhappy because she wants you to pay the Phantom his wages again."

"That too," the Count said. "Everything to do with the Phantom – I want her to stop."

Erik put his knife down and leaned forward, his dark hair gleaming in the lights. "I have a better idea."

* * *

><p>When the Count and Madame Giry left, I remained in the kitchen, washing up the plates. I had told Erik that I'd start on them because he had done so much already, but really I was in here because I needed time to think.<p>

Madame Giry had advised me (in my room, before we had left for dinner) to break things to Erik slowly, in order to give him time to mull things over. She had also advised me to kiss him; supposedly this worked wonders.

I swished the plate around in the sink, scrubbing at the porcelain until it shone white in the bubbles, and tried to concentrate. Erik was still saying goodbye to our friends; I could hear their voices out on the shore. Madame Giry was laughing about something, probably something Erik had said. He was rather a tease.

There was a soft noise from behind me, then a scuffle as something launched itself off the ground and onto the counter. I turned around.

"Wednesday! There you are… I thought you were somewhere around here."

The black cat mewed and stretched at the sound of my voice, her startlingly white eyes seeking blindly in my direction. I dried my hands on a towel and picked her up. I'd finish the dishes after I fed her.

"She's already eaten," Erik said. He came into the kitchen and reached for the dish I had been washing. "You don't need to feed her."

His tone was a little cold; I frowned and put Wednesday down. "Something wrong?"

"No."

"Right," I said, biting the word off at the end. "Are you sure?"

"Yes, I'm sure." He dried the dish and opened the cabinet to put it away.

We both reached for the next plate – his fingers wrapped around mine, and I stopped moving.

Then he let go and stepped away. "I'll clear the table."

"Erik," I said, sharply, and let go of the dish. "What is wrong with you?"

His shoulders stiffened, but his back was to me. I could not see his expression. "I don't know what you mean."

The cold, calm words cut deeper than angry ones would have done. I frowned in hurt and surprise, confused.

And then my temper steamed over.

"What do you mean, you don't know what I mean? You know perfectly well what I'm talking about!"

Erik put down the dish he'd been lifting and turned slowly to face me, tense as strung wire.

I crossed the kitchen, still holding a towel, and glared up at him. "Is this about the rafters? Are you angry I haven't told you what I'm worried about?"

It was surprising how quickly he answered. "Yes."

He let out a long breath, and some of the tension drained out of his body. "Katelienne… I'm worried about you. You've been so preoccupied lately… Is it about the Inspector?"

"So you're trying to fix my 'preoccupation' by snapping at me?" I inquired, putting my hand on my hip and letting the towel slide to the floor. "Well, I'm here to tell you it's not working."

The Phantom stared down at me, his face impassive.

I stared back, equally expressionless.

"Heavens, you drive me mad, Irene," Erik breathed, and he took hold of my chin and kissed me, hard.

* * *

><p>The sound of my real name jarred me, I had not heard it in so long – I reached up and put my arms around his neck in silent, inexpressible thanks. His use of it had reminded me of my old home – and Claire.<p>

After a little while, I drew my head away from his. "Listen to me, Erik. This is never going to work if we don't trust each other."

He raised a dark eyebrow at me; I flushed. "Yes, I know I was the one who hid something first. But how did you find out about the Inspector?"

The eyebrow drew itself down. "I guessed."

"Oh. Well, then, you guessed right. Anyway, how about this? I -"

"Enough talking," Erik growled.

I caught hold of his arm and pushed him away; he allowed me to do so, or I would have not been able to.

"No, talking is good. I… like talking. And Erik, no more kissing for tonight, alright? I'll kiss you in the morning. Right now I'm going back to my room."

The Phantom sighed and held up a hand to stop me. "First we need to settle things."

I bit my lip, took a deep breath, and nodded. "Yes. No more hiding things from each other."

"Yes."

He caught my eyes and held them, the green pupils bright against the white and brown of his face. I looked back at him, my gaze steady.

"You know," the Phantom said, thoughtfully, "since we love each other, we don't need to hold each other to a bargain like we did in the beginning."

I nodded again. "Yes, that's true."

"So how about this? If I don't hide things from you, you don't hide things from me. This relationship has to be built on trust, or it will never work."

"I agree," I said, and meant it. "You have to understand, though, I've been keeping things to myself for so long, it's become a habit. A way… of protecting myself. Do you understand what I mean?"

The Phantom tilted his head to the side, eying me with a mixture of amusement and sympathy.

"Irene, what wouldn't _I _understand about keeping secrets?"

This revelation struck me as so ludicrous that I laughed out loud. "Oh… right. I see. Well, then, you'll understand if it takes me time."

Erik took my hand in both of his, still grinning. "I'll give you all the time you need."

* * *

><p>I woke the next morning with a feeling of anticipation bubbling in my chest. I frowned, trying to think. What was I so excited about? I got out of bed, realized that the sunlight from the balcony door had almost reached my bedroom door, and froze in shock.<p>

I was late!

* * *

><p>I dashed down the staircase, around the corner into the Count's corridor, and straight into the Phantom. This hurt, because he was practically all muscle and bone, and because I had been going rather quickly. I recoiled, taken aback, and Erik caught hold of my wrist.<p>

He tugged me into the wall and pulled the hidden door shut.

"Where are you going in such a hurry?" he murmured, slipping something into my hand, a piece of thick paper.

"To see the Count," I gasped, out of breath. "What is that?"

"Your invitation to the winter ball. I found it outside your room," the Phantom replied, and dipped his head to kiss me.

I shoved at him; he staggered back, a little surprised, and laughed. "And that was a kiss, but it seems you want me to leave."

"Yes, sorry." My makeup was probably ruined now, and this was really not a good time. "Erik, I love you, but I have to go. The Count is going to kill me if I don't get there in time to rescue him."

"Of course, of course. Did I mention that you look beautiful, as always?"

I fought to stop a smile from spreading across my face. "You can't see me in the dark."

"I recall that someone once told me I had eyes like a cat."

"Erik, if you don't open that door right now, I'll never give you a compliment again!"

* * *

><p>I found myself in the corridor again, blinking at the sudden burst of candlelight, clutching the invitation in my hand. Someone tapped me on the shoulder.<p>

"Katelienne? Aren't you supposed to be in my office?"

"Count!" I said, looking blindly around. "Yes… I got a little… sidetracked."

"I see. Yes, I see quite well."

"Oh, shut up," I snapped, and removed his hand from my shoulder. "Let's go, then. And stop snickering; I can hear you from a mile away."

* * *

><p>By the time we reached his office, I could see again. However, this was unfortunate, because the patroness was standing solidly in the middle of the Oriental rug with her monkey on her shoulder.<p>

"_You_ must be the _Ghost _writer," she trilled, offering me a dainty, gem-covered hand.

I shook it with some trepidation. "Yes, I am, I suppose. My name's Katelienne Laurent. It's a pleasure to meet you, Lady Van Guardant."

She blushed prettily and inclined her head. Behind us, the Count shut the door and cleared his throat.

"Mesdames, why don't you both take a seat?"

I sat; the patroness did not. She petted her monkey with a finger, and the Count sighed. "Please, Lady Van Guardant?"

"Oh, were you speaking to _me_?" said the patroness, and sat down with a rustle of her heavy skirts. "Of course, dear Francis. What is this about?"

I noticed that the Count made sure to stand several feet away from the monkey, which had leapt from its mistress's shoulder onto the portrait frame (the one, incidentally, that covered the secret passageway). I shot him a worried glance as the painting creaked ominously.

"Oh, er, several things," the Count said, staring fixedly at the monkey. "Lady Van Guardant -" it was obviously difficult for him to force out the ridiculous name "- do you mind removing your animal from the painting?"

The patroness swiveled around in her chair and clicked her tongue at the monkey. It spat at her and climbed higher, its tiny paws digging into the paint and causing little flakes of blue and red and gold to flutter to the carpet. Behind the patroness, the Count squared his shoulders and compressed his lips in clear pain.

"I'll handle it," I said, rising to my feet. The patroness broke off her clicking noises and glanced at me, surprised.

"Hmm? Oh, no, _I_ should probably do it. Fritz _bites_ strangers, don't you, dear?"

She rose gracefully to her feet and swooped suddenly at the monkey – it hissed again and climbed onto the top of the frame, its little black eyes blinking at me maliciously through a thick tuft of golden hair. I glared back. _What a pest._

The Count cleared his throat again. "We can handle that _later_, Lady Van Guardant. Can the both of you take a seat? I have a few things I'd like to discuss."

It seemed we were getting a little behind on the plan, so I sat down again, keeping a wary eye on the monkey. The patroness sniffed, dragged her chair over to the painting, climbed on top of it, and brought her pet down.

As she dragged her chair back over the rug (snagging the fine threads), and cooing sickeningly to her monkey, the Count and I exchanged identical looks of misery.

This was going to take all morning.


	4. Chapter 4: Les Événements

_Thank you all very much for your kind reviews! I hope you all had a happy Thanksgiving!_

* * *

><p>Lady Van Guardant stroked her monkey's fur while the Count talked, humming discordantly under her breath, and I fought the urge to shake her. Didn't she want to hear what he had to say? (And her attempt to make music was getting on my nerves, as she seemed to be tone-deaf.)<p>

"…and, finally, I'd like to discuss the manner of the Opera Ghost," Francis said, reaching for a folded paper on the corner of his desk. The patroness sat up straight in her chair. "Ah, here it is," he said. "The list of funds."

Lady Van Guardant watched him expectantly, her eyes alert, and the monkey on her lap made a soft noise of pain. "Oh, sorry, dear," she said, relaxing her fingers. The beast scampered onto her shoulder, away from her pinching hands.

The Count unfolded the paper, skimmed it, set it down, and turned his gaze to the patroness. "I seem to recall you want me to pay the Opera Ghost."

"Yes," Lady Van Guardant said. "Yes, this is a matter of some import to me."

"May I ask why?" I inquired.

The patroness turned her startled blue eyes to me. "Why, because we cannot put his soul to rest until we calm his bewildered spirit!"

A strange image came to me: Erik, floating several feet above the ground, draped in a filmy white gown, an angelic look plastered incongruously on his swarthy face, his mouth forming a prim O of astonishment…

I snickered. The patroness's eyes grew wide with shock at my rude response.

The Count coughed loudly. "Yes, well. I'm afraid we cannot pay O.G.; it's much too expensive. Unless, of course, you'd like to pay him out of your _own_ pocket, Lady Van Guardant."

The patroness sat up even straighter in her chair and lifted her chin. "I cannot. I am already directing my money to the funding of the Opera House, Count. Surely you can use the excess funds you have from my patronage to pay the Ghost."

"That is out of the question," I said. "We are stretched tight enough as it is. However, we have come up with a better idea, if you are willing to hear it."

"Well, what is it?"

This was the crucial moment; I had to swallow before speaking. "We hold a séance – under your direction, of course – and free the Ghost once and for all."

* * *

><p>The patroness was stunned into silence; I watched her for a reaction, but she said nothing.<p>

Francis glanced at me. I could tell he was trying not to panic.

Then Lady Van Guardant took her monkey off her shoulder, rose to her feet, and stared down at the Count and I. Her face was as pale as the white walls behind her.

"I'm afraid I cannot accept your offer, Mme. Laurent, Count, but…" She hesitated, and her colorless lips trembled. "I feel you are mocking me, and I cannot bear it. Good day."

Francis leapt to his feet, hurrying around the desk to block her path to the door. "No, no, not at all, Lady Van Guardant! No, we are not. Please, stay and listen to us."

"Really, Lady Van Guardant," I said, also rising, "We were not mocking you. Please do as the Count says; stay and listen to what we have to say."

She turned to face me, her voice shaking with indignation. "I am not a liar! You think I am a fraud, but my powers are true! They were cruelly thrust upon me, and their weight is heavy for one such as I."

I pressed my lips together, trying to figure out what she was playing at. Did she really think anyone would believe her idiotic claims? And why was she so insistent on the matter, anyway?

From behind her, I saw the Count's face contort in sympathy, and my heart sank. _Of course._

"Please, Lady Van Guardant," he said, the name rolling easily, smoothly off his tongue, "please sit down and listen to me. We will do whatever you ask."

* * *

><p>After I left the office, I decided that the Count's kindness was something of a flaw in his otherwise unmarred character. Not only had he agreed to begin 'paying' the Phantom again, but he had arranged for the patroness to have my box. Box Five, the main 'haunt' of the 'Ghost.' <em>My<em> box.

Lady Van Guardant sailed out of the room after me, clutching the Count's arm and chattering gaily about tomorrow night. She had also persuaded Francis to host a ball in her welcome.

"We shall have to have _streamers_," she said decisively, "and masks. I _adore_ masks. But it shouldn't be a _costumed_ ball, oh no. It will be a ball gown ball, one with tuxedos and all."

I pressed my lips together and went out of the corridor, fuming silently. The whole plan had backfired; nothing was going as it should. And where was Erik? How was I supposed to talk to him about my awful failure of a morning if he wasn't around?

* * *

><p>Madame Giry caught me before I could make my way to my room and its hidden passageway.<p>

"Katelienne, where are you going in such a mad hurry?" she demanded, taking hold of my arm and steering me in the opposite direction. "Have you completely forgotten about our shopping trip?"

I unsuccessfully tried to pry her fingers off my forearm. "No, I haven't. But my morning has been truly _horrific_ – I wanted to go tell Erik about it."

"Well, even if you had managed to get down to the lake," Madame Giry replied, lowering her voice, "you wouldn't have found him. He's up on the rafters, spying on the new opera and dropping buckets of paint."

"You're joking," I said, letting her pull me down the stairs. "Please tell me you're joking."

"Go ask Jeanette," she said. "She's now the Green Lady."

I could tell this amused her, but I had no idea why. I snapped, "Jeanette's my friend. Why is he throwing things at the performers? They're working!"

Madame Giry pulled me into a room off the corridor, away from the rapidly-increasing stream of performers from the auditorium.

"Oh, Katelienne, Jeanette was practically begging for an excuse to leave the stage. She wants to go see the Count. To make sure the new patroness is not out of line. This was a lovely opportunity for her."

I finally managed to detach her grip. "Madame Giry…"

"Erik's a little tired of not messing things up, Katelienne," she told me. "He decided to have some fun today. Besides, he was bored without you."

"That doesn't give him leave to destroy rehearsals," I retorted. "I should really go talk to him. He's acting like a little boy."

"Oh, am I?" said a different voice.

* * *

><p>I threw my hands into the air. "Lovely. I've just been looking for you everywhere, and Madame Giry tells me you've been throwing paint at performers and generally wreaking havoc on rehearsals."<p>

Erik raised one eyebrow and looked at Madame Giry. "It was only a few drops."

"More like twenty," Madame Giry said, shaking her head. "Jeanette's arms look like they belong to a jade figurine."

"Enough," I said. "Erik, I'll deal with you after I go shopping. It turns out I _really _need a new dress, seeing as the patroness has finagled the Count into throwing a ball tomorrow night, so goodbye."

Madame Giry had stepped towards the door, but at my words she turned back. "What? A ball? Then we had better get going, hadn't we?"

I made to move towards her, but Erik took a long stride in my direction, caught hold of my shoulders, and kissed me.

It was intense; immediate; and it pulled me out of the real world into a haze of gold and red and purple; violent fireworks exploded under my eyelids.

When Erik broke away, I was out of breath. I could only stare at him, speechless.

He stepped back, a grin curling his lips upwards. "I've been wanting to do that all day."

I looked at Madame Giry: she smiled and shrugged. "True love; what can you say? Come along, Katelienne, it's time to go."

As I left Erik standing there, looking after me, I felt something warm and fierce burning in my chest, warming me from the inside out. The wings of love beat strongly, comfortingly, behind my ribs. I was not unhappy anymore.

* * *

><p>Madame Giry and I walked down the sidewalk, each of us carrying bags of clothing, our breath casting pale clouds into the chilly air.<p>

"And so…" she concluded, "that was how Hugh and I met. Love at first sight. Now you should tell me about the first time you met Erik!"

Her enthusiasm was palpable; I glanced, surprised, at her. "I didn't see him the first time we met; he was hiding in that passageway behind my room, I surmise. All I heard was his voice. Rather ominous, right?"

Madame Giry waved down a carriage, her cloak flapping in the wind. "Alright, then, when did you really meet him?"

I gazed off dreamily at the snow-covered shops, watching the cold sunlight sparkle off the icy roofs. "Oh, I saw him on the roof the next day. I asked him to do an interview, you see."

A carriage pulled up next to us, and we climbed in. "It was a rather odd day."

Madame Giry laughed. "With Erik, it always is. Driver! Take us to the Opera House." She shut the window and settled back into her seat, putting her package down next to her. "But what did you think of him?"

"I thought he was…" I paused, trying to remember my feelings on the rooftop that day. "I was scared of him, to tell the truth. He was nearly too much for me; too strange, too dangerous, too mysterious… I thought he might lose his temper and kill me for asking what I did."

Madame Giry leaned forward, her arms around her knees, rapt. "But why did you interview him in the first place?"

I took a deep breath. "He told me Luke was a murderer, and that was all I needed to hear. No one else knew about Claire, except for him... And Erik trusted me, for some reason. He thought I knew nothing about Luke's past, that I was an oblivious, obsessed writer. He told me… he told me later that I seemed so truthful, so innocent, that he suspected nothing. Until he read Claire's last letter."

Madame Giry sank back into the cushions, her eyes sad. "I wish he hadn't gone through your things, but that's Erik for you. He must have thought you were hiding something from him."

"Erik doesn't trust people, I know," I said. "And I had all this information about him; he had nothing about me. I understand why he went through my things. And now I'm glad he did (though I still don't approve), but if he hadn't, I might have confided in him anyway."

"Perhaps," Madame Giry said. "Perhaps not. I remember how closed-off you were at the Opera. Even when I first met you at my interview, I suspected something was deeply wrong."

"You're very astute at reading people," I said, nodding. "I'm not. If I hadn't known what Luke was – I would never had thought anyone could have been that evil. That's why I told the Inspector about him; why I was so gullible."

The words stung as they left my lips; I knew that if I hadn't told the Inspector about Luke, none of the later, dangerous events would have happened. The Inspector would have been helpless to do anything except –

"He would have accused you, publicly, of murder," Madame Giry said, breaking into my thoughts. "And before that, he would have taken his 'policemen', and searched the Opera. Even after his kidnapping attempt, he still came back to the Opera and demanded you. I doubt lying to him would have stopped him."

"What I can't understand is why he protected Luke. He doesn't seem the type to help people."

"Maybe he was in Luke's debt. Very deep in Luke's debt." She looked out the window as she said the last word, and smiled. "We're home."

"Madame Giry."

She had opened the door and gotten onto the step before I spoke. She turned to look up at me, her dark hair almost black against the white of the snow-covered sidewalk.

"Something wrong, dear?"

"I'd like to ask you something personal. Before we get back to the Opera."

She held out her hand. "Then let's go to the front garden, shall we? You can ask me there."

It was clear she had deduced I wanted to speak to her without Erik overhearing; it was touching that she trusted me enough to not ask why, especially when I thought about how much she cared for him.

* * *

><p>We crossed the snowy ground into the garden, found a bench under the trees that wasn't too damp, and sat down. I arranged my package on my lap, pushed the hood of my cloak back, and gathered my thoughts, trying to force them into some sort of order.<p>

Madame Giry waited patiently, unspeaking, unmoving, gazing at the white-lined branches of the trees that lined the outer edge of the garden.

"Alright, this is going to sound odd, but here goes. Tell me truthfully: do you think Erik is unable to leave the Opera? That he won't ever do so?"

She said nothing, only stared at the trees, and I bit my lip. Had I been too blunt? Had I offended her?

Then she turned, and her dark eyes found mine. "Katelienne, Erik is not like us. He's had a… different sort of life. If he feels he cannot leave the Opera, then you must give him time."

"We are running out of time," I said, numbly. "The Inspector could be on a different continent by now, for all we know. We have to do something about him."

Madame Giry lifted her chin. "Why?"

"You know why. We need to put him in jail. He tried to kidnap me, remember?"

She looked away again, twisting her hands together in her lap. "Even if you and Erik did leave, I doubt you'd be able to find him. Besides, as long as he's not hurting us, we do not need to do anything. He's better left alone, in my opinion."

I rose to my feet, gripping my bag tightly. "I see. I thought you'd agree with Erik."

"Katelienne," she said, getting to her feet, "don't be angry with me. And I'm not saying this because of Erik; I'm saying it because of _you_. I don't want you to be hurt. The Inspector is dangerous."

"I've handled dangerous people before," I said, angry. "If Erik would only come with me-"

"- but he won't, and you know that. You have to give him time." She hesitated before speaking again. "How much did he tell you about his past?"

"All of it," I said, starting across the snow towards the Opera. "I know all of it; the only thing I don't know is why he won't leave the Opera now. But you're right – I should give him time, and I do have work to do here. The Count would be disappointed, too."

Madame Giry followed me, her shoes crunching in the snow. "Quite true. But Katelienne…"

We had reached the Opera House doors; I turned. "What?"

As the doorman opened the door and reached for my coat, Madame Giry shook her head. "Nothing. I'll speak to you about it later."

She went after me through the doors, into the warm lobby, and headed through the crowd of people towards the auditorium. I stared after her, wondering what she had been about to say.

"Are you Katelienne Laurent?" asked a male voice from behind me.

* * *

><p>I turned. "Yes, I am. Who are you?"<p>

The reporter – for so he was – produced a pad of paper and a pencil from his pocket and began to scribble madly. "You were Luke Garmin's fiancée, correct?"

For a moment, I simply stared at him, confused. "I don't have to answer your questions," I said, backing up. "If you'll excuse me, I have things to do."

"I'm sorry, but you see, you do," he said, continuing to scribble. "I'm a reporter for the Soliel Courier, and we're very well known. If you don't answer my questions, I'll be sure to defame you in my article."

I glared at him. I could feel the blood rushing to my face. "Right. You think that is going to work, do you? Well, it's not. I bid you good day."

The reporter caught my arm as I turned on my heel; his fingers dug painfully into my flesh. I thought I could feel his pencil jabbing its point into my arm.

"Unhand me _at once_," I said, shoving my elbow hard into his stomach.

The reporter dropped his hand, his face contorting with anguish, and reeled backwards a step or two. I took this chance to escape, whirling around, heading for the stairs.

As I hurried through the lobby, his voice rose above the mutters of onlookers, clear and cold.

"You'll regret this, Mademoiselle Laurent! I promise you!"


	5. Chapter 5: Interruptions et Espérance

Erik found me on the roof.

"Wintertime," he commented. "Isn't it splendid?"

"The snowfall is lovely," I agreed, turning to face him. "Aren't you cold? You don't have your cloak."

The Phantom shrugged, the muscles of his shoulders shifting sinuously under his shirt. "Not really. How was your day?"

I gave up on keeping him warm; it was clear he wasn't going to go get his cloak. "It was all right. I got my dress; Madame Giry and I had a nice day out. However, the reporters are returning – one of them accosted me in the lobby."

Erik's eyes narrowed. "I saw. He had no right to put his hands on you."

"No, he didn't. But I'm sure he realized that after I knocked the wind out of him. What do you think he wanted? An exclusive interview with the ex-fiancée of the missing Luke Garmin?"

"I suppose. But the police are not interested; it seems the note we wrote did the trick. They think he's run off to pursue more worldly things."

I nodded. We had fabricated a letter, addressed to the Count, supposedly written by Luke (after all, it was in his handwriting, thanks to the Phantom), detailing his reasons for leaving the Opera on such short notice. It had not been difficult; we merely blamed apathy and boredom, and declared an intention to seek after women and other vices in a faraway city. The Count gave it to the police, under the pretense that he had found it under his door the day Luke vanished.

"Well, anyway, that reporter believes he can 'defame' my name. Ha. I doubt he realizes how much it's already been damaged, the poor man. He's not going to get much out of his article."

Erik smiled in a dangerous manner. "No, he's not."

"What do you mean by that?" I asked, fixing him with a stare. "You didn't go after him, did you?"

"Of course not," the Phantom said, with a hint of impatience. He flicked some snow out of his dark hair; the white fragments drifted slowly to the ground. "Let's just say that some paint fell mysteriously from the ceiling and spattered all over his precious notepad. And some happened to land in his hair. And on his nice coat."

I raised my eyebrows. "You're really using that paint well, aren't you? What color this time?"

"Blue," Erik said. "I thought of you."

I laughed. "Oh, what fond memories that color reminds me of. How considerate of you. Let's go inside, shall we? I'm getting cold, and I have at least three layers of clothing on; I can't imagine how cold you must be."

* * *

><p>Despite protestations that he <em>never<em> got cold, the Phantom and I were soon in my room with mugs of tea. I sank down on the couch and pulled my feet up under my skirts. Erik hovered over my desk at the opposite side of the room, examining my papers with curiosity.

"Which interviews are you using in your book?"

"Madame Giry's, Meg's, Andre's, and yours, of course," I said. "I haven't decided about the others, though. Some of them are so ludicrous it makes me want to cry."

"But the public would laugh," Erik pointed out. "Besides, don't you want to lie about the majority of your findings? We can't have people roaming the Opera in search of me."

I knew this, and I had already figured out how to avoid this problem. "Yes, I know. I'm not going to use the entire interviews from the trustworthy people, and I'm not going to write about the underground portion of the Opera. The only other person who might tell about the secret passageways is dead, so I can leave those out too."

Erik crossed the room, and stood staring down at me. "Well, _two_ other people, actually. You're leaving out Christine."

"I didn't tell you about her letter, did I?" I said thoughtfully. "She sent me one at the beginning of this whole thing, before I even got here. She wants nothing to do with the Opera; she won't tell a soul."

"I'm sure she's told her husband," the Phantom said, sitting down next to me, his voice calm. I wondered if he… if he still…

"I suppose she has," I said, just as calmly.

Erik turned to look at me. "The time Christine spent here – I was obsessed. She knew that, which was why she left. I hope you aren't thinking what I think you're thinking."

I pulled myself together. Erik was no longer in love with her; I knew that, and I had known it for quite some time. "No, of course not. Do you hear footsteps? I think someone's coming down the hallway."

"Like usual," Erik said, grouchily. "Why are there always people interrupting our conversations? I despise interruptions."

"It's because I'm so popular," I said, making a little joke. "No one can bear to be parted from me for more than an hour."

"I believe I'm the only one that feels that way," Erik said, putting his arm around my shoulders. "But you're right; they are heading to your room, I think. I'd better be going."

I leaned against him for a moment, breathing in his familiar scent, of ink and man and parchment and something that reminded me of pine trees. "I suppose you must."

After a pause, he untangled himself from me and reached up to tap the panel in the wall.

The footsteps outside suddenly halted, and someone knocked on my door.

Erik got up, slid through the wall, and vanished. I sighed. "Who is it?"

There was no reply, only the sound of footsteps retreating down the corridor.

* * *

><p>I hurried to the door and wrenched it open.<p>

Whoever had been outside was gone; the corridor and stairwell were empty. At my feet lay a note, folded in half and sealed.

I picked it up.

The seal was a black clock, encircled with words. I squinted at the tiny indentations in the wax. The language did not appear to be English. Perhaps it was Latin.

"May I see?" asked an interested voice from behind me.

"Erik," I said, handing the note over my shoulder to him, "I'm not sure this is an invitation to a ball, or something pleasant like that. It seems rather ominous."

I shut the door; Erik twisted the letter sideways, trying to make out the words.

"_M__ors venit velociter quae neminem veretur," _he read at last.

"That has to be Latin," I said, leaning against the door, waiting for an explanation. "What does it mean?"

The Phantom raised his head. His eyes were cold. "It's a death threat."

I sucked in my breath, taken aback. "Are you sure? Tell me exactly what it says."

Erik broke the seal and tore the letter open, his eyes running quickly over the single piece of parchment. His hands tightened on the note, the knuckles turning white.

With an effort, he tore his eyes away and handed it to me.

The handwriting was coarse, capitalized, and ugly; the thick black marks marred the clean whiteness of the paper.

_YOU WILL SUFFER FOR WHAT YOU DID TO JOHN._

_JUSTICE WILL BE SERVED._

_BEWARE._

I dropped the horrible thing on the floor, aware that my fingers were shaking. "Who could have sent it? Who knows about John Monett besides us? Do you think… the Inspector?"

Erik had begun to pace, his hands clenched at his sides. "No. He wouldn't dare return to the Opera; he'd be recognized."

"Perhaps he sent someone else?"

The Phantom shook his head. "No, this seems more personal. The use of the first name only – the reference to justice – Katelienne, if you were writing a threatening letter to Garmin after Claire's death, it would sound like this."

It felt as though the world was spinning around me in a huge concentric circle; the floor under my feet was unsteady. "You mean… someone related to John. You mean… someone who knew Luke _personally_ is after me."

There was a pause.

Erik turned towards me, his lips curling, his green eyes deadly. "Not if _I_ have anything to say about it."

Taking a deep breath, I regained my poise and lifted my chin. Our eyes met. "Exactly what I was going to say."

* * *

><p>Later that evening, I went down to the auditorium – I wanted to watch the rehearsal.<p>

Madame Giry was onstage, her dark hair shining in the lights from overhead. The ballet girls, however, were not; presumably backstage, as there was a heated argument playing out on the stage.

The Count, Jeannette, and the patroness appeared to be having a disagreement.

They were all speaking at once; the orchestra was not playing. The musicians sat still, apparently waiting the conflict out, and the conductor had laid down his baton in despair.

"- and how dare you speak to me that way!" Jeannette finished, her voice choked.

Lady Van Guardant flushed in fury, the red coloration spreading up into her hairline. "I was merely pointing out that you went flat on the last note, not trying to start a war - "

The Count waved his hands desperately, trying to catch their attention. "Mesdames, please, we have work to do!"

Jeannette ignored him; her hands were clenched on the music she was holding, her eyes were bright with unshed tears. I assumed they were due to anger.

"You are a – a hateful woman! You are absolutely awful! And your constant presence near my fiancé is disturbing!"

The patroness drew herself up to her full height, trembling with rage. "I have no designs on your fiancé, Mademoiselle, it is you who should watch yourself. I am the patroness here, _I_ make the decisions. If you will not listen to my _advice_ – for that is what it is, and nothing more – I will simply stop funding your atrocious singing."

I did not want to see Jeanette's expression; I looked instead to Francis. The Count's face went from white to red to white again. From behind him, Madame Giry stepped forward.

"Lady Van Guardant, kindly remove yourself from the stage, your presence is unnecessary. Conductor, start the piece at measure five – I believe that is where we were. Jeannette, your music is in danger of being torn."

She put an arm around the soprano's shoulders, but Jeanette shook it off furiously. "I cannot believe you allow this awful woman to speak to me in that way, Francis! Can't you see how horrible she is?"

Francis was still standing there, caught between his fiancée and his patroness; his face had gone a color reminiscent of old cottage cheese. He made a great effort to speak.

"Lady Van Guardant, please meet me in my office in ten minutes' time."

The patroness, finally acknowledging the dismissal, reached down to scoop her monkey into her arms (he had been chewing on the hem of her skirts). Apparently she believed she had won, for she shot Jeanette a triumphant look before descending the stairs.

Jeanette let out a hoarse cry and threw her music onto the stage. The pages scattered over the polished floor, swishing softly into silence; Madame Giry seemed at a loss.

Lady Van Guardant picked up her pace; she seemed to be not only a troublemaker, but a coward. She hurried out of the auditorium without another look back. I wavered between staying to comfort Jeannette or leaving to confront the patroness.

I chose the latter.

* * *

><p>The patroness' rooms (yes, she had more than one) were located on the first floor; her windows overlooked the back gardens. The Count had given me her room number during the Phantom's dinner party, and it was well he had done so.<p>

I hurried down the corridor, found room 103, and was about to knock when I heard something interesting.

A low, male voice, and the answering, higher-pitched one of the patroness, met my ears.

"So you think she's your…" the patroness said, her voice trailing off into an indistinguishable murmur. I considered putting my ear to the door, but decided against it.

"Well, you're quite wrong." Her tone was serious, almost detached. I frowned. Who was she talking to?

"What do you see, then?" was the male speaker's response. I still could not place his voice, although it reminded me of someone's.

The patroness did not speak; I deduced that she was writing something down. "Here."

A rustle of paper, the soft sound of shoes on carpet… I picked up my skirts and went down the corridor at a brisk pace, hoping to make it around the corridor before the patroness' mysterious visitor emerged.

I glanced back over my shoulder as I rounded the corner, but no one had left her room. I did not want to go back and continue eavesdropping; it seemed cowardly and fruitless. The only things I had gleaned from that odd conversation was that the patroness was talking about a woman, and that her visitor disagreed with her assumptions.

I shrugged this oddity off and went up the staircase, hoping to run into Erik. Tonight I'd thought we could eat dinner together in my room; it would be a pleasant distraction from all the chaos that was happening lately. Besides, I had enough of clandestine discussions and angry people for today.

* * *

><p>Madame Giry did not join us until around nine that evening.<p>

"The rehearsals are a failure," she told us, picking halfheartedly at a plate of apple pie. "Jeannette's unable to concentrate, the Count is distraught over his patroness' behavior, and the two of them aren't speaking to each other."

Erik put his fork down with a clatter. "I had hoped that giving into the patroness' wish for a séance would solve this problem, but it appears it hasn't. How I despise stuck-up people."

"I suppose we'll just have to wait it out," I said, running my finger around the brim of my glass, and trying to not smile at Erik's comment. "The patroness, on the other hand – maybe we could find someone else to take her place, and then have Francis evict her."

"Well, who do you suggest?" Madame Giry asked me.

I shrugged. "I was hoping you had an idea. Someone well-off, kind – or at least bearable – interested in opera, etc."

She shook her head, and went back to picking at her food. "I suppose we could put an ad in the paper, if you wanted to."

The Phantom laughed, and adopted a lofty tone. "_We need a well-adjusted, kind, opera-bent, and __**normal**__ patron for the Palais Garnier Opera House. If this describes you, please apply._ Well, it can't hurt to try, can it?"

"I could write it now," I said, putting my empty plate on the table. "Let me get some paper."

* * *

><p>The next morning, I went down to the Count's office with our ad in hand – Madame Giry, Erik, and I had all put our heads together and written a suitable piece. Erik, of course, had asked to accompany me to the Count's office; he was somewhere in the secret passageways that led to the prima donna's portrait.<p>

Thankfully, there were no voices emanating from Francis' room; no screaming patroness with her monkey bobbing wildly on her shoulder. I knocked.

"Come in," Francis answered.

I entered, shut the door, and dropped the ad on his desk before I happened to look around.

"What are all these?"

Surrounding the desk, stacked up against the walls nearly to the ceiling, were boxes, unopened and sealed with heavy tape.

"Decorations," the Count said, melancholy. "The patroness ordered them with the Opera's money. I'm waiting for her to come down to the office and send them back."

I stared at me. "Are you saying she ordered those without telling you? With _our_ funds?"

Francis picked up the advertisement. "Yes. I cannot wait to hear why. What is this?"

"An ad for a new patron," I said, glancing around at the boxes with a feeling of horror. The painting creaked: it appeared Erik was trying to enter, but there was a mound of boxes in the way.

I hurried over and tugged them out aside with the aid of the Count, and Erik emerged into the office wearing a quizzical expression.

"What's all this?" he demanded, and caught sight of Francis' face. "No, let me guess. The patroness."

The last word sounded like a veiled curse when he uttered it; I grinned. "Yes, you're right. She's struck again."

Francis held up the advertisement, stared at the writing, and something akin to relief broke over his face. "Yes, yes, yes! I am done with her. Let's send this ad out today. Katelienne, do you mind going down to the newspaper office?"

"Gladly," I said, taking the ad from him.

Erik scowled. "Why can't you go, Count? I haven't seen Katelienne all morning."

This was a complete lie; I shot him a look of reproach, but said nothing. I'd rather spend the morning with Erik than go into town and pay for an advertisement to be published. Besides, I might run into reporters.

The Count looked around his office. "Yes, actually, I can go instead. I'd rather not be here when the patroness comes back… Katelienne, do you think you could handle her?"

I handed him the advertisement. "Most definitely, Francis. I'll have her out of here by tonight."

Erik stretched like a cat. "I'll help, too."

Francis, luckily, missed this last part – he was searching for his coat. I located it for him, helped him out of the office, waved goodbye, and shut the door.

I turned to Erik, filled with evil excitement. "I love today!"

The Phantom had appropriated Francis' chair; he grinned up at me with an expression of unholy glee.

"_Amor vincit omnia,_" he said, whimsically. "It's going to be a fine fight, isn't it, Irene?"


	6. Chapter 6: Les Discours

_Thank you for your reviews! Here's the next chapter!_

* * *

><p>The Phantom had snuck back behind the prima donna portrait, as he did not want to be seen when the patroness arrived. I took over Francis' chair and poured myself a tall glass of water.<p>

It would not do if my throat got dry during my little speech.

A few minutes of silence passed.

"Where is she?" I muttered, tapping my fingers on the desk. "Erik? Is she coming yet?"

"No," was his answer. He sounded stuffy.

"Are you alright back there?"

"There is a considerable amount of dust," Erik replied, his voice still muffled, "but I believe I can withstand it for a short period of time." He sniffed; I thought I could hear him fumbling for a handkerchief.

"No sneezing," I warned him. "I can't imagine what the patroness would do if the _Ghost _happened to sneeze while she was here."

"I won't, I promise. Are you ready? I think she's coming down the hall."

I sat up straight, pulled a wisp of hair out of my eyes, and folded my hands on the top of the desk. For some reason, sitting at the manager's desk gave one a heady sense of power. "Ready."

* * *

><p>The patroness neglected to knock; she sailed through the doorway, her monkey on her shoulder – and came to an abrupt halt in the middle of the rug. "What are <em>you<em> doing here?" she demanded, rudely. "Where's Francis?"

"The Count is out," I informed her. "He authorized me to speak to you. Please take a seat; this will last a while."

* * *

><p>Lady Van Guardant departed an hour later, her nose in the air, her face streaked with the remnants of tears. Her monkey clung to her skirts, burying its gold face in the embroidered cloth as if refusing to look at me. The ex-patroness sent me a baleful glare as she went out the door.<p>

As I had asked, she was going to first send the boxes back to wherever they had come from (she would pay for their return, not the Count); pack up her belongings, and make her way back to wherever _she_ had come from. I had promised to pay for her carriage myself; but I did not promise her anything else.

According to her, I was "an insufferable woman, quite unlike" herself, and furthermore, I "lacked basic human kindness, along with any bit of morality." Erik, when he emerged from behind the painting, told me (without words) just how wrong she was.

* * *

><p>The Count returned around lunchtime, bearing good news. I quickly informed him of Lady Van Guardant's eviction, and was also pleased to say that all the boxes had been removed. Needless to say, his mood lightened.<p>

"I've sent out the ad," he told Madame Giry and me over his bowl of pea soup. "It'll be in every newspaper by tomorrow morning."

Madame Giry raised her eyebrows. "How much did that cost?"

Francis smiled sheepishly. "I used my own money, so never you mind. Have you… have you seen Jeannette lately?"

"The last time I saw her," Madame Giry said, coolly, and scraping the last of the soup out of her bowl, "she was storming off the stage yesterday after rehearsal. If this does not come across as too personal, I suggest that you go find her and apologize."

The Count stared into his soup, watching the steam billow up into his face. "I suppose you're right. I mean, I didn't mean to have all of this happen. I didn't think the patroness – sorry, Lady Van Whatever-her-name-is – would turn out to be so horrible."

I blew on my soup, took a cautious bite, and swallowed. "We know. You did your best. I'm sorry I wasn't around to help you find a patron, but now we're trying again, and this new idea may work. I agree with Madame Giry, though; you should go talk to Jeannette. I'm sure she's waiting for you to do so."

Francis looked back down at his soup (he had glanced up when I started talking), then up again. "I'd better go then, shouldn't I?"

"Don't you want to eat?"

"Later," the Count said, and shoved the bowl away, causing the soup to slop dangerously. "I'd hate to lose Jeannette over a bowl of soup."

* * *

><p>As he left the dining hall, Madame Giry pushed her bowl away too. Unlike the Count's, it was empty. "I should go tell my ballet girls the good news. They'll be thrilled to hear the Crazy Witch is gone."<p>

I shook my head, smiling. "I see they didn't like her either."

"No, not really," Madame Giry agreed, ruefully. "I tried to stop them from calling her that, but it seems I failed. But before I go – is everything all right between you and Erik, dear?"

Involuntarily, my eyes went to the wall behind her.

She frowned. "He wouldn't be spying on you, dear, didn't you ask him not to? I'd think he'd give you the benefit of the doubt; he _is_ your lover, after all."

I started. "My _what_?"

"I meant it in the formal way, Katelienne! Goodness, you are touchy today. I see my questions are unwelcome."

"No, wait, don't go," I said, reaching across the table to put my hand on hers. "Everything is well, Madame Giry. Very well, in fact. Erik is in a fine mood today, with the patroness' departure and all. We're on good terms."

"And the Inspector?"

I shifted uncomfortably under her gaze. "I've decided not to worry about him for the time being. I'm going to wait and see what happens."

"Well, that is a brilliant idea," Madame Giry said, getting to her feet. "I hope it works out. You know, if you are still worried later, you can always come and talk to me."

"I know." I smiled up at her. "Thank you for being such a good friend, Madame Giry. It means a lot to me."

She tilted her head sideways, as if she was just thinking of something. "Katelienne, you don't have to refer to me as Madame anymore; as you said, we're friends. Call me Antoinette."

This was unexpected, but very welcome. "I will, then… Antoinette. That's a lovely name."

Madame Giry leaned down, lowering her voice so no one nearby would hear. "And if you don't mind, could I call you Irene? In private, of course."

"Yes," I said, still trying to get used to the sound of her first name. "Yes, Antoinette, that would be nice."

She straightened up. "You see, 'Madame Giry' makes me sound like an old lady, and I am so much younger than that!"

I laughed, meeting her bright eyes with my own. "Yes, you are. Have a nice time at rehearsal!"

Madame Giry – Antoinette – smiled at me and went away between the tables, bouncing on the balls of her feet like a young woman. She was not using her cane anymore; I made a mental note to ask her about this sometime. In fact, when I thought about it, she had not used it at all ever since the Inspector's eviction. Maybe an old injury had healed?

* * *

><p>A few weeks passed: my book was sent off to a publisher friend of mine, various patronspatronesses applied for the position (and were declined, due to various reasons), I received another threatening note, and Erik wrote two concertos and one aria.

"Monsieur Willard wants me to publish under my real name," I told Erik, as we sat in his kitchen one fine evening. Wednesday was lolling on Madame Giry's lap, and the Count had insisted on making us tea, so Erik was reclining full-length on the couch. I was sitting on the thick rug in front of the fire, where I could keep an eye on Erik and also watch everyone else.

"I wouldn't do that," Antoinette warned me, stroking Wednesday's head. "It will only come back to bite you in the long run."

I imagined my books flapping after me, opening and closing their covers like jaws, and had to hide a smile. "Not my _real _real name, my fake name, Katelienne Laurent. He says it will help the sales if I disclose it was written by a woman. I told him I still wasn't sure if I actually wanted to publish it yet."

The Count handed Erik a cup of tea. I noticed he did this rather cautiously, as if he was afraid Erik would spring up and attack. "Why did you send it to him if you didn't want it published?"

"Well, I wanted some advice," I said, accepting my tea from him. "I know you've all read it, but I thought a fresh pair of eyes would help. Besides, he's very nice. I met him while I was looking for Claire; he doesn't know my real name."

The Count frowned and gave Madame Giry her cup. "It's Irene, right? So were you going to publish under a different pseudonym?"

"Yes, I thought about calling myself I. K. Summers; combining my names, you see."

Erik raised a dark eyebrow at my fake name; I smiled in response. "I know, it's rather ludicrous. Anyway, I'm still unsure about publishing. What do you two think?"

I was addressing Erik and Francis; I knew Madame Giry's opinion already.

Francis, who had sat down in a chair next to the sofa, tugged self-consciously at his collar and glanced at the Phantom. "He can go first."

We all turned our eyes to Erik.

"I don't care; it's up to you," he said, sitting up. "But it will bring publicity, and you'll have to be careful about leaving the Opera. And are you sure you want more attention?"

I shook my head. "I don't know. Perhaps, if I publish, we'll draw the Inspector out of hiding. He'll be curious about my new book, I wager."

"That's stupid," Madame Giry interrupted. "That would be very foolish."

Erik eyed her. "It might work, Madame. And Katelienne has us to watch her back."

"I like it," the Count interjected. He had suddenly adapted a bright-eyed interest. "And it would help the Opera; you know the ticket sales are still lower than usual. If Katelienne published a novel about the elusive _Phantom_, I'm sure it would help us all out."

"Unless they haven't recovered from the mishaps that happened last time," I said, remembering the rats and shuddering.

Antoinette set her cup down and folded her arms. "I still don't think this is a good idea. And Katelienne, I've been meaning to ask you this for some time – do your parents know where you are?"

I took a sip of tea, winced at the amount of sugar the Count had put in, and forced myself to swallow it without changing expression.

"No, they don't. But they don't care; I sent them a letter a while ago explaining that I had eloped to Italy, and the only thing I got back was a note telling me what a horrible daughter I was." I shrugged. "They won't be a problem. But why are you asking?"

Erik, who understood why, frowned. "She's asking because she thinks eventually someone is going to put two and two together and figure out that Katelienne Laurent is actually Irene Dubois."

I put my tea down and smiled at the two of them. "No, you don't understand. It doesn't matter if someone figures it out, because the people I was searching for are dead. Even if someone reveals my true name, the only problem will be a bit of embarrassment on my part. No one will really care that I've taken on a pseudonym, and I can tell them I did so because of my writing."

The Count took a long draught of tea, apparently immune to the absurd amount of sugar he had put in. "Well, then, everything will work out. You can publish your book under Katelienne Laurent, and the Opera's ticket sales will go up, and everyone will be happy."

The Phantom tried his tea, made a horrible face and hastily set it down. He got to his feet. "I beg to disagree, Count. Katelienne is being blackmailed."

* * *

><p>It is unnecessary to detail the reactions of Madame Giry and the Count; they were both very astonished in their own ways, and this went on for quite some time (especially on Francis' part, who could not believe that anyone would blackmail <em>me<em>). When they had both finished exclaiming, Erik brought out the two notes I had received and laid them out on the table for everyone to read.

"I received this one a few weeks ago," I said, indicating the _Beware_ note. "This one, however, I got yesterday."

This new note read:

_I AM WATCHING YOU._

_SOON YOUR CRIMES WILL BE EXPOSED._

_BEWARE._

"Crimes?" Madame Giry asked, touching the edge of the second note with the tip of her finger. "Is he referring to Luke's death?"

"We believe so," I said. "And we have a few ideas of who may be writing them."

"But what's this?" the Count asked. He had turned over the first note and was examining the broken seal.

Erik took the letter from him. "It's part of an old Latin prayer. Literally, it says: '_Death comes quickly and respects no one_.'"

Antoinette drew in her breath. "A death threat."

"That's what I thought," the Phantom agreed, grimly. He put the letter back down. "I've been careless in my guard over the Opera House; I've been down here composing for nearly three weeks. I'll have to return to my old position as Ghost."

I didn't want him to have to do so, but I knew he was right. Despite careful watch, I had been unable to catch sight of my mysterious blackmailer.

"I suppose you will," Madame Giry said. "In fact, it might turn out well for the whole Opera – the ballet girls miss your antics at rehearsals, and Jeannette is still…" she trailed off, remembering the Count.

Francis sighed. "I've been trying to talk to her, but I think she's still angry at me." He looked miserably down at his teacup. I felt a pang of remorse. I hadn't tried to talk to Jeannette either. I promised myself I'd go visit her the next day.

Madame Giry sent me an unhappy glance, and changed the subject. "Who do you suspect?"

I began to tick people off on my fingers. "The Inspector's fake policemen, that reporter who bothered me, the ex-patroness… That's it."

"And all of these are indefinite," Erik put in. "We know what the fake policemen look like, so I doubt they'd return to the Opera, unless they are disguised (and from their attempt to masquerade as policemen, I doubt they are any good at it); the reporter had bright red hair and hasn't been seen in the Opera for weeks; and the ex-patroness has a pet monkey and wears flamboyant clothing. All of them would be recognized. If the blackmailer is one of them, then we are dealing with a chameleon, of sorts."

Everyone was silent.

"This evening has turned out rather badly," I said, in a feeble attempt to lighten the mood. "I'm sorry. Why don't we talk of happier things?"

Antoinette stirred. "Erik, did you say you were composing this week? What have you written?"

After some convincing, the Phantom left to find his violin and his new music, and the Count refilled our teacups. I made a mental note to brew the tea next time. It was becoming extremely difficult to sip the over-sugared liquid without choking.

I cradled the warm cup in my hands, breathing in the steam, and watched Madame Giry embroider a handkerchief. Wednesday had left her lap for the Count's.

"Who are you making that for?" I asked.

"Meg," Madame Giry replied. "She's terrible at making handkerchiefs; I thought I'd send her some for Christmas."

I glanced sharply at her. "It's nearly Christmas already?"

"Not quite," the Count said lazily, drawing his fingers through Wednesday's hair. "You still have a few weeks to buy presents."

"Good," I said, stretching. Sitting on the floor made my back hurt. I got to my feet and crossed to the sofa. "We have a ball coming up soon, don't we?"

Francis nodded. "On Christmas Eve, actually. And this year we're going to charge the people who come."

"Us too?" Madame Giry said, looking up from her sewing. "Ow!"

She had pricked herself; I winced in sympathy. "Would you like a rag or something?"

"No, no, it's not that bad. Francis, did you say we have to _pay_ to go to the ball?"

The Count shook his head vigorously. "No, not you! The guests have to pay; the Opera's workers don't. In fact -" and here he looked slightly abashed "- the workers will have their ball upstairs, in the Upper Ballroom; the guests will be downstairs."

"We have to go upstairs to have a ball?" the ballet instructor demanded. "Why?"

I cleared my throat, hoping to avert an argument. "I'm sure he didn't mean you, Antoinette. The Opera's head employees will be allowed at the main ball, correct, Francis?"

The Count, caught off guard, could only nod.

Madame Giry scowled. "You just came up with that on the fly," she informed me. "But it had better be true," she told Francis. "I am not going to a ball with drunken stagehands, and neither are my ballet girls."

Francis shook his head from side to side in fervent agreement.

Erik entered the room, carrying his violin, his bow, and a sheaf of music. His quick eyes went from the Count to Antoinette to me. "Is something wrong?"

"No, not anymore," Antoinette replied coolly. The Count pretended he was suddenly very interested in the woodwork on the arm of his chair. "Start playing; I'm in need of something stronger than tea, but I doubt you have anything alcoholic down here, because you're so paranoid about fire."

Erik only raised his eyebrows. He put his music down on the back of a chair, and tucked his violin under his chin, setting the bow to the strings.

"This is called _Winter_," he told us. "Madame Giry, if you want some wine, there's a bottle in the back of the pantry. It's probably covered with spider webs, but you can have it."

She shook her head. "Only joking, Erik. Go ahead and play."

I settled back into the sofa to listen. The Phantom had already performed it for me, and I knew it was beautiful.

Erik's green eyes found mine, and he began to play.

It was the next morning when Madame Giry finally told me of her fears.


	7. Chapter 7: Nouveaux Arrivants

_Thank you, everyone, for your reviews! And readers, thank you for reading! It means a lot! I hope you enjoy this next chapter..._

* * *

><p>We were in a carriage, on the way to the cemetery (Erik had asked me specifically to take someone with me the next time I visited Claire's grave), when Antoinette broke off her musings about the Opera's ticket sales and said something entirely off-topic.<p>

"You do know Erik is disfigured, Katelienne, yes?"

I blinked at her in astonishment, and a bit of horror. "I… I… I had guessed, if that's what you mean… But what on earth made you think of that?"

She ignored my query, waving her hand in the air as if to brush it aside. "Has he showed you his face?"

"No," I said, staring at her. "Why are you asking me this? Haven't you realized I don't care what his face looks like by now?"

"I want to make sure you understand everything about him," she said. "You were so insistent about getting him out of the Opera – I want you to know that he has his reasons for not leaving."

Her accusations hurt. "I stopped talking about leaving _ages_ ago, Madame Giry. I know he has his reasons for staying; we already discussed them. Besides, you already gave me your advice on the matter. I think we should drop it."

Madame Giry leaned back in her seat, nodded once, and looked out her window.

I looked out mine, my insides roiling with confusion and unhappiness and hurt. What had she thought to discover by asking me that? Did she think I'd drop everything and run if Erik took off his mask? Why did she even care?

_She loves him…_ a quiet voice in my head told me. _He's like a son to her; you know that. She doesn't want to see him hurt._

_But she knows I love him! _I argued back. _**Everyone**__ knows. I can't believe she asked me that. I don't understand what's gotten into her._

_Perhaps she's afraid,_ the small voice said, and fell silent.

* * *

><p>We reached the cemetery a few minutes later. I opened the carriage door and went down the stairs. The cold air washed over my face, already numbing my nose; my fingers went icy. I should have brought gloves.<p>

I passed through the heavy iron gates, not stopping for Madame Giry to catch up with me – this was something I wished to do alone. The stone gravestones stood silent in the brisk air, their white surfaces glinting in the dappled December sunlight that fell through the trees. I went down the gravel path, my shoes dislodging the stones so that they crunched together.

When I reached Claire's grave, I read the inscription on the stone again, grimacing, as I did every time. The words were a lie, a cover-up for Luke's hand in her death; their use on my sister's tombstone was sickening.

"Why don't you order a new one?"

It was Madame Giry's voice; I glanced over my shoulder at her. She stood behind me, her hands clasped, her eyes on Claire's tombstone.

"I can't," I said, quietly, and knelt to rearrange the lilies on the grave, turning the vase so that the light struck it. "Cooper bought the grave; the payment is under his name. I can't buy a new stone for a grave I don't own."

"Scratch out the letters, then," she suggested. "I have a knife."

"Vandalizing," said a thin, reedy voice from behind us, "is not permitted in the graveyard."

I got to my feet, brushing snow off my skirts, and turned to look at the newcomer. "Of course not, Monsieur," I said.

The old, bent man that stood before us seemed to be the caretaker of the cemetery, as he was carrying an armful of wood (which looked much too heavy for him) and wearing a misanthropic frown.

He said nothing, only waited.

Madame Giry and I looked at each other, then back at him. I blinked innocently, hoping he would leave. "Is there something wrong?"

The caretaker eyed us for a moment more, then turned and walked away through the stones, heading towards the back of the cemetery.

"I think we offended him," I said. "Oh, well. Give me the knife, won't you?"

Madame Giry shook her head. "Not until he's out of sight."

We waited until he had reached the little hut in the back before she handed over the weapon. "Be careful," she warned. "If I see him coming, I'll tell you."

I crouched down on my heels, holding the knife in front of the inscription, trying to figure out where to start. With a shrug, I chose the beginning of the writing and gently scratched at the first letter with the sharp blade.

The marble was soft, soft as wood; the knife cut easily into the stone, and the first letter was instantly obliterated. I glanced up at Madame Giry.

"Look."

"Good, Katelienne," she said, shading her eyes to see the stone. "Keep going. The caretaker's not back yet."

A few minutes later, the inscription was all but gone. Only a few words remained.

_will be missed._

I pushed a strand of hair out of my eyes and cut diligently into the stone, biting my lip in concentration.

When I straightened and handed the knife back to Madame Giry, the inscription was gone. The area where it had been was now marred by a series of symmetrical gouges, cut deeply into the white stone.

* * *

><p>I ate lunch alone that day, avoiding the crush of people by coming to the dining hall late. I did not want to speak to Madame Giry; her cutting words in the carriage were still fresh in my mind. We had not spoken on the way home.<p>

Something creaked in the ceiling overhead. I took another bite of soup, tasting nothing, and glanced up. Most likely, it was Erik, wondering why I was eating so late.

"Do you want something?" I asked the ceiling, rather sarcastically.

Another creak.

"Fine, don't talk," I said, and dropped my spoon into the half-empty soup bowl, pushing the whole thing away. I wasn't hungry. How come the chef never made anything except soup, anyway?

There was silence from above me; not the midnight silence, interrupted by soft sounds of the city; nor the silence one hears after the end of music, just before the wave of applause breaks over you. It was not the silence before a storm, ominous, yet fascinating in its stillness. No, it was the silence of dead things, the silence when there was nothing left to give.

The silence of the end.

I laid my head down on my arms and closed my eyes.

* * *

><p>When the singing started, it was barely discernable from the undertone of music in my mind – I had had a hateful tune playing in my head the entire morning, something to do with an old nursery rhyme.<p>

But the soft voice rose gently above the roar of my thoughts, breaking into the raucous cacophony of fears, and grief, and terrifying worries – and I heard it. The tune from earlier broke apart, disintegrating into nothing.

The music was wordless, but in it was the murmur of recognition and remembrance, the hum of pain assuaged, the whisper of promised peace.

I lifted my head off my arms, hardly breathing as the sounds washed over me. Alone in the hall, I sat, listening to unearthly, indescribable music from an invisible performer.

* * *

><p>When it stopped, I brushed something wet out of the corner of my eye and swiveled around on the bench, my back against the table.<p>

"Thank you."

There was a pause. I thought I heard an answering whisper.

Then Erik slipped into the hall, moving lithely across the smooth floor, his dark hair gleaming in the candlelight.

He reached me and touched a light hand to my hair, fingers brushing across the top of my head.

The words sprang from my lips without forethought. "I love you."

His kiss was answer enough.

* * *

><p>"What was wrong?" he asked a few minutes later, perched on the edge of the table.<p>

I was sitting next to him, my head on his shoulder. "Oh, Erik, so many things. I suppose it finally all hit me."

"Claire?"

I touched the back of his hand, watching the candlelight play across the browned skin. "Yes, she was part of it. I miss her. She was always so constant; it feels so wrong that she's gone before me."

Erik turned his hand under mine, taking my hand in his. "I'm sorry."

An apology like that from anyone would have sounded lifeless, but from Erik, the man who twisted words to his own uses, who hid behind them, this was more than an oft-repeated line. It was more a baring of his own soul.

"Erik…"

"What is it?"

I couldn't bring myself to ask. I looked away. "Never mind."

Erik looked down at me, his dark eyes on my face. "Come with me," he said. "I have something to tell you. And… to show you."

I slid off the table, my hand still in his, and we went out of the dining hall.

* * *

><p>Later, I found Madame Giry in the auditorium, directing the ballet girls through a scene. She was obviously intent on her work; her eyes were narrowed in concentration, her back ramrod straight. I sat down in the front row to wait.<p>

I wondered, briefly, where the Count and Jeannette were; if they had made up yet. Then I happened to look to the side. Francis, wearing his trademark red coat, was barely visible from behind a pillar. And there appeared to be a woman with him. I recognized Jeannette's light hair.

They were kissing, it seemed, so I looked away to give them privacy. Apparently they had made up.

* * *

><p>The music rose to a climax; the ballet girls leapt into the air, suspended for a moment in space as though they had acquired the power of flight.<p>

The music swept down again, and they landed gracefully, their glittering costumes of green and black and brown (they were practicing the final act, _Earth_) swooshing up around them as their feet met the polished floor.

They all curtsied, to an imaginary audience; I smiled at them with more than a small feeling of awe.

From the side, Madame Giry applauded lightly, nodding in approval. "Good job, girls," she said. "You're done for today."

The girls, flushed with relief and happiness, scampered offstage, snatching up their bags as they went.

I rose to my feet, waiting for the ballet instructor to come down the stairs.

Madame Giry turned in place, her eyes on the stage; perhaps, I thought, she was looking for something. She bent down and picked something small off the floor. It looked like a silver bracelet.

"Rose always manages to lose something," she said to herself. She glanced at the left side of the stage, squinting into the shadows. "And there's her bag; silly girl."

I went up the steps. "Madame Giry, can I talk to you?"

"Of course," she said, and held the bracelet up. "After I return this to Rose."

"I'll do it, Madame," someone said. I looked over. A man stood in the shadows, his face obscured by the darkness, but his voice was young and easy.

He came into the light and offered her a hand. "Andre Roquefort, at your service."

I felt myself freeze on the spot. There was no time to explain; I simply turned on my heel and vanished into the motley arrangements of props and paintings backstage, hurrying away through the darkness.

Madame Giry did not call after me; I had the feeling she was too stunned to do so.

* * *

><p>As I went around a tall stack of old, molding backdrops, Erik dropped from the low ceiling and landed in front of me.<p>

"And here I thought we had agreed to stop meeting like this," he said, his tone playful.

I sighed. "Erik, one of my family's old friends is here. And I think he saw me onstage just now."

Erik frowned. "Roquefort? He's one of your parents' friends? He's here to apply for the patron position. Are you sure he saw you?"

"He probably did," I said, sinking down onto a battered red cushion. "I suppose he'll write to his parents and tell them, and they'll write to my parents, and before you know it, Katelienne Laurent will be revealed as nothing more than a lie."

"I remember you telling me that ending the lies would be a relief," the Phantom said, putting one hand on the screens above me. "That it would be like getting rid of a huge burden. Irene, you don't want to pretend to be someone else the rest of your life. This may be the best thing that could have happened."

I wound my fingers in my skirts, thinking. Perhaps… "Maybe you're right. Andre was always a gentleman; if he does tell them, he'll phrase it nicely."

Madame Giry came around the corner and halted in front of us; Erik took his hand away from the screens and turned to face her.

"Well?"

"Well what?" she demanded, letting out a whoosh of air. "What happened back there, Katelienne? Andre is a perfectly nice man. Why did you rush off like that?"

I explained.

* * *

><p>When I finished, Madame Giry had regained her breath and her even temper. "I see. Well, I doubt he recognized you, he was too busy babbling about Rose. It seems she's acquired quite the admirer."<p>

Erik said, "It seems we don't have to worry about him anymore, than. Irene, if you don't want him to tell anyone about you, all you have to do is stay out of his way. Madame, did he mention how long he'd be staying in Paris?"

She nodded. "He'll be here for a few weeks, he said. He's going to the winter ball."

"But did the Count hire him?" I asked, absentmindedly picking up a snow globe with fairies inside.

Madame Giry pursed her lips. "I don't know. He didn't mention it."

"No, he didn't," said a new voice. Erik slipped away into the shadows as someone came around the corner.

"He hired me."

* * *

><p>For a moment, I was horrified that the newcomer had heard the three of us speaking; that he knew Erik was there. I couldn't bring myself to speak.<p>

Antoinette leaped in, saving me. "And who are you? I hope you know it's rude to eavesdrop on people's conversations."

The brown-haired man grinned. "Yes, I apologize. All I heard was the last few sentences. The rest of your dialogue is safe from me."

I looked him up and down, finding a glitter of gold on his right hand (a signet ring?), noting the expensive shoes on his feet, the well-sculpted bones in his face. "I think she asked who you were."

He continued to grin. "You're a fast one. Yes, she did. My name is Honoré Auger. And it is a pleasure to meet you."

I smiled back, grimly. "The same to you. If you'll excuse me, I must be going. Madame Giry, I'll see you tomorrow."

* * *

><p>The new patron stared after me as I departed; I could feel his eyes on my back.<p>

"I think I did something wrong," he whispered loudly to the ballet instructor.

Madame Giry sniffed. "I believe so. Monsieur Auger, I'll show you to your room, if you like. And the writer is taken, so you do not even have a chance with her."

I heard him laugh as I turned the corner; presumably he was going to say something witty.

* * *

><p>Erik met me next to a pile of old costumes, slipping silently out of the darkness into the aisle.<p>

"Do you think he saw you?" I asked, stifling a yawn. It was late.

"No, he was too busy gawping at you," the Phantom said, cracking the bones in his neck. "I suppose I'll have to drop him off the roof tonight. Goodbye, new patron. Hello, more applicants."

"Oh, shut it," I said, putting a hand on his arm. "Take me back to my room; I'm tired."

"As you wish, of course, dear."

I frowned. His voice had dipped a little at the end, as if he had just thought of something, something awful.

"Is everything alright?"

Erik detached my hand from his arm and slowly reached into his pocket, drawing out a folded note. I recognized the black seal immediately.

"When was it sent?"

"I found it on the way to the auditorium," he said. "It was peeking out from under your door, so I picked it up. I forgot about it till now."

I took the note from him, but I was loath to unfold it. "I don't want to read it. Just tell me what it says."

Erik took the note from me, opened it, and read aloud: "_You cannot hide from me. I will find you. Beware._"

"It was under my door?"

He nodded.

"I'm staying with you," I said, the words spilling out without forethought. "I'll go pack a suitcase. If the blackmailer can find my room and leave notes there, he – or she – can come there at night too. I wouldn't doubt they have a key or something, I'm sure they've thought of it-"

I had stopped, because Erik had put a finger to my lips.

"I have a guest room," he said, patiently. "You can stay there. This person – whoever they are – will not get past me a fourth time."

I believed him; his eyes were alight with fierceness; the arm under my fingers was hard with muscle.

He lifted his finger away. I slid my hand down his arm and wrapped my fingers around his.

"Let's go, then."


	8. Chapter 8: Les Cauchemars

_Thank you, once again, for your sweet, encouraging, and insightful reviews. I promise I will write about Erik's unmasking scene soon, so don't worry!_

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><p>Before the Phantom and I reached the hidden passageway (well, I assumed we were going to one of Erik's secret doors; I was not entirely sure, to tell the truth) I realized something, and stopped in the middle of the corridor.<p>

Erik turned to look at me, dropping my hand, his green eyes glinting in the candlelight. "What is it?"

I held up one finger. "I'm thinking. Give me a moment."

He waited, standing there like a stone monolith, but with a much friendlier expression than one would usually bear.

"Aha! All right, I've got it," I said. "I don't need to stay in your house – all I have to do is ask the Count to give me a new room!"

The Phantom, unsurprisingly, did not look pleased at this new development.

"Oh," he said, eloquently.

"Erik," I said, putting a hand on my hip, "I'm not going to live in anyone's house unless they propose to me, alright? It's… odd. I have my standards, you know that."

He raised an eyebrow. "What about when you stayed over that night a month ago? During the blue dye incident? Does that not count?"

"It does not, seeing as nothing happened, obviously. And yes, thank you for reminding me, we should be going to see the Count."

My little joke completed, I turned and went back down the corridor; Erik sighed and followed, murmuring something under his breath.

"What was that?"

"Only commenting on your lovely hairstyle, dear," was his cool reply.

"Right."

"I'll be in the walls," he said from behind me. "There are too many people around the Count's office."

"Bye, Monsieur Phantom," I said, tossing the careless phrase over my shoulder. "Don't get lost in those winding passageways of yours. I know how difficult it is for you to find your way in the dark, creepy, hidden corridors."

"Mrrmble," Erik said.

* * *

><p>The Count was in his office when I arrived, sitting behind his desk with a pensive, worried expression on his face, one that I thought didn't suit his young, unlined features.<p>

"How old are you?" I asked, entering the office.

Francis started, and knocked his glass of whiskey over. "What?" He looked down at the alcohol dripping down the side of his desk, sighed, and got up. "I'm sorry; you surprised me."

"You heard me," I said, and sat down in an unoccupied chair. "I'm just curious, that's all."

"Twenty-six," the Count said, locating a towel and throwing it at his desk. It didn't mop up the spill by itself (I assumed that was why he had thrown it, for it made no sense otherwise), so he bent to pick it up. "You are in an odd mood. Would you like some whiskey or tea or something?"

I remembered the Count's idea of tea and felt slightly nauseous. "No, thank you. I've come to ask you to give me a new room."

The Count straightened up from dabbing halfheartedly at his rug. "A new room? Is there something wrong with your old one?"

He seemed confused, so I clarified. "No, but Erik and I have decided -"

"- you mean, _you_ have decided," a disembodied voice interrupted. "I had nothing to do with this idea."

The Count, who had glanced wildly around when the voice spoke, realized it was Erik and sighed in a harried way. "Katelienne, what are you trying to say?"

I smiled at him. "Please?"

He sat down on the floor and stuck his head under his desk, still rubbing at the rug with the towel. "Please what?"

"Please," I said, "will you get me a new room? The Blackmailer, whoever they are, keeps slipping notes under my door and I'd rather not have that happen anymore. You do have spare rooms, don't you?"

Francis got to his feet, dropped the towel on the floor, shoved his chair back, and went over to a safe in the corner of his office.

"Yes, I do," he said, "but you probably won't like it very much. Not that I'd blame you. Do you have your old key with you?"

I did. I dug it out of my pocket and crossed the room to hand it to him. He had twirled the dial on the safe and pulled open the door; inside were tiny black boxes, each labeled with different numbers.

He took the key from me, found the box labeled 1502, and dropped my key inside of it.

"Now for your new room key," he said, placing the box back inside the safe. "Garmin didn't keep the key in here, as no one ever asked for it, according to his logbook – but his logs were rather inaccurate, so we shouldn't depend on them, of course. Anyway, the key is up here."

He had shut the safe and spun the dial while he was talking; now he reached up to a shelf above the safe, shoved some papers out of the way and lifted a long, thin, ebony box down.

"These are the items Garmin considered useless."

The Count prised the black lid open to reveal three items scattered over a lining of dusty black velvet.

One key, a long silver chain, and an ornate silver compass lay inside.

Curious, I picked the key up; the chain came with it. "They're connected?"

"Yes," Francis said, shrugging. "Who knows why. The room number is on the back of the key. You can have the compass, if you want. I have no use for it."

I put the chain around my neck; the key hung down to my waist, the chain was so long. Francis offered me the box – I took it from him and shut the lid, closing the curious compass inside.

"Thank you."

"Anytime," the Count said, returning to his seat. "In advance, I'm sorry about the room – it's rather old and dirty, but it's the only one left."

"I can _clean_ it, Francis," I said, smiling a little. "I'll deal with it. Don't worry about it. And thank you again."

* * *

><p>I turned the key over when I left the office: 819, it read in curling, calligraphic letters down the side.<p>

"I wonder where this is," I murmured. "I've never been on the eighth floor before."

"That's because you never go anywhere in the Opera," a voice said in my ear. I started to look around, but caught myself and pressed my lips together instead. I had forgotten Erik could throw his voice.

A few ballet girls, one of them accompanied by a young man, came down the corridor towards me, talking excitedly.

"Honoré, the ball's in two weeks! Who are you going to ask?"

"Why, I haven't decided yet," the patron said, draping one of his arms around the delicate shoulders of the closest ballet girl. She giggled and blushed, but let it stay. Honoré raised his head; his flashing blue-green eyes caught mine.

I lifted my eyebrows high, turned on my heel, and headed in the opposite direction, the key banging against my side.

Somehow, Honoré detached himself from the girls, for he caught up to me in the next corridor.

"I don't think I properly introduced myself to you last night," he said, keeping pace with me evenly, his voice light and warm. "Is that a key?"

"No," I said, slipping the chain over my head and dropping it, key and all, into my pocket. "I know who you are, Monsieur Auger; you told me your name last night. My name is Katelienne Laurent, but I'm sure you know that already."

"I do, as a matter of fact," Honoré agreed. "Where are you going in such a hurry?"

I fell back on one of my old excuses, one I had frequently used with Luke. "I have several advertisements to work on. And if I may say so bluntly, it is really none of your business."

Honoré laughed. "Yes, I know. I was only interested, Mademoiselle Laurent. Or is it Madame?"

"I'm not married, if that's what you're asking in such an oblique, overused fashion, Monsieur Auger. And if you'll excuse me now, I have work to do."

The patron nodded – I caught the movement out of the corner of my eye – laughed again, and bid me farewell.

"Good luck on your writing!"

His fading laughter floated after me as I went into the stairwell. I sighed. It was obvious he had seen right through my feeble lie. Oh well, I had no fear from _him_, which was quite different from what I was used to. Perhaps I should have stayed and talked to him. He was our patron, after all, and he did not seem too bad.

"You're going the wrong way," Erik observed from the bottom of the staircase, his dark form almost invisible in the dim light. No one ever lit enough candles in the stairwells.

I reached for my knife, realized who it was, and let my hand fall back to my side. I hadn't heard Erik approach; in fact, I had nearly forgotten about him. "What are you doing down here? I thought you were in the walls!"

"I was," Erik said, leaning rakishly against the pillar, "but I grew bored. Don't you want to take the shortcut to your new room? We can cut a few staircases out of the walk, if you'd like."

"Yes," I said, because I had no intention of climbing twenty flights of stairs. "Lead the way, Phantom."

* * *

><p>'The way' was long and involved, and while we were walking it, I began to wish I had taken the normal path to my room. As I ducked to avoid yet another spiderweb hanging from the ceiling, its grey wispy tentacles reaching out for my face, I tripped over something and had to hop to regain my balance.<p>

"Something wrong?" Erik inquired. He was ahead of me, traversing the corridors as silently and as skillfully as usual, his feet moving unerringly over the slippery stones.

"Of course not," I said, pulling a mass of cobwebs out of my hair. "How much longer to the room?"

"Five minutes or so," he replied.

I gave up on my hair and hurried to catch up with the Phantom. "Well, I suppose this way may be slightly better than the flights of stairs we were going to climb. Maybe. If you cleaned this place, it would be a lot nicer to walk through, you know."

He glanced sideways at me, amused. "Sweep and dust and clean? Phantoms don't do _that_. Besides, it adds to the whole timbre of the place. If some poor lost soul wanders down here and finds a neat little passageway, lit and with signs and maps and misses all the excitement, that would be… Well, it would be _wrong_ for one thing and simply depressing for another…"

I didn't quite know whether to laugh or to cry. "And here I thought you _liked_ clean things."

Erik half-smiled. "I do. But can you imagine sweeping up this place? It stretches on for miles. I'd hire a _maid_ before I'd start working on it."

"Of course you would," I said, linking my arm through his. "How much longer now?"

"From the rate we're going to be moving, I'd say at least an hour," the Phantom murmured, and lowered his head to kiss me.

* * *

><p>Actually, Erik was incorrect – it only took fifteen or twenty minutes to reach the end of the passageway, but this space of time was peppered liberally with pauses. Kissing was a necessity while walking, it seemed.<p>

We burst out of the secret door at the end laughing; I had tripped the Phantom into the wall and ran. He, of course, had caught up to me.

After that, we had been distracted for a while, but, at last, we had made it out.

"I think I like that passageway after all," I laughed, still trying to comb spiderwebs out of my hair. "Although it smelled like a tomb and was almost as disgusting."

Erik reached up and moved my hands aside. "Here, let me. I don't know why you wouldn't stay in there longer; it's such a pleasant area."

"And you're a liar," I said, waiting for him to remove the last of the spiderwebs. "Are we almost to my new room?"

Our voices were echoing down the passageway; we were out of the hidden one and back into the normally inhabited section of the Opera, but this important fact I had forgotten.

Something creaked open, and a gruff voice said, "Who's there?"

* * *

><p>Erik pulled me back into the passageway, sliding the removable wall into place with his free hand.<p>

I remained still, trying to listen for the sound of approaching footsteps. Pressed as I was into Erik's side, I could feel his chest rise and fall with his breathing, the erratic tempo of his blood. His heart was going rather quickly.

"Stupid of me," he whispered into my hair. "I forgot about the Opera populace."

"Don't be a dolt," I whispered back, reaching up to scratch my cheek – Erik's arm had wrapped around my shoulders, and the edge of his linen sleeve was brushing against my cheekbone. "I forgot too. Who was it out there?"

"I think, the chef," Erik whispered. He stiffened suddenly. I glanced up at him.

"What is it?"

"Sssh," he whispered, tapping his finger against his lips. "I thought I heard…"

A moment later, he pushed open the door and went out, slipping his arm from my shoulders. I glanced up and down the passageway, searching for signs of people, but there was no one there.

Erik turned to face me, moonlight from a nearby window glinting off the side of his mask. "I thought I heard his door close. Let's go find your room, shall we?"

He was still speaking in a whisper; I didn't doubt that the chef was wide awake. I followed his example. "All right. And let's hurry; it's late."

* * *

><p>As we went down the corridor, crossing the smooth stones, I asked, "Do you know who else lives in this corridor?"<p>

"The kitchen workers," Erik replied. "But you won't be staying in this corridor. Your room is up another flight of stairs."

I had been reading the plaques over the doors as we passed; I frowned and compared my key to their numbers. "We're on the seventh floor. Why did we stop here?"

"Because your new room is only accessible by two ways, and the easiest way is only accessible on the seventh floor. Of course, you could climb out the windows, but that would be difficult – they're painted shut."

I was beginning to have faint qualms about my new abode. "How come?"

We had turned the corner and come to a door. Erik fed a key into the lock, pulled it out, twisted the handle and pushed the heavy door open, looking back at me over his shoulder.

"Because it's where the first prima donna – not Carlotta, some other woman I didn't know – used to stay, and she hated fresh air."

He went up the small, winding staircase; he had to duck his head in order to fit. I shut the door and fumbled for a match – Erik heard this, somehow, and turned, still hunched over.

"Don't light that; we're almost there. Here, take my hand."

I went up the stairs and took it, watching my feet carefully as we ascended the staircase. I knew Erik wouldn't let me fall, but I did not plan on making him catch me in such a small space. The stairs were not smooth, but they had used to be – someone had broken the fine marble; the cuts and gashes in the stone were visible even in near darkness.

Erik reached the door and pushed it open. I frowned, peering around him into the gloom.

"How bad is it?"

"You can light your match now," Erik said resignedly. "If you really want to see the room."

I struck the match and ventured past Erik, holding the flame high.

* * *

><p>The tiny light flickered off several reflective surfaces: the room appeared to be completely lined with mirrors. How odd. I found an old torch in the wall and lit it, then strode to another, and another.<p>

The garret flared into life.

The floor was covered in rat droppings and dust, littered with bits of old paper, pieces of ragged cloth, and in the far corner, there was a pile of what appeared to be old clothing. I went towards it; there were strange high-pitched noises emanating from it.

"Rats," I said, backing away. "The Count was right about how awful this room would be. How come no one's ever cleaned it?"

"The room is supposedly cursed," the Phantom said, going over to a round window in the back of the bedroom. "So people avoid it."

"Did you-"

"Yes," he admitted, stepping away from the window. "I did. It was impossible to resist; the maids were jabbering about me in here one day, and it was the perfect opportunity… You should have seen the looks on their faces when I started talking."

"You are an evil man," I said, shaking my head. "I am glad I didn't see you frighten those poor women; how horrid of you. But how am I going to clean this room up enough to sleep in it tonight? I can barely walk around in this filth."

"This is nothing compared to Garmin's room, remember?" Erik said, grimacing. "We can handle it. I'll go get some cleaning supplies."

"You mean, steal them."

The Phantom only smiled. He went towards the right wall, paused for a moment, and reached out a long hand. The full-length mirror in front of him, one of the eight lining the room, shuddered and slid open, and Erik went out.

* * *

><p>We spent most of that night cleaning; when we had finished, Erik brought almost all of my belongings (including my bed; I have no idea how he had managed it) through the secret passageway into my new home. After he inspected the room, locked the doors, handed me the keys, and showed me how to open the mirror door in case something happened, he left, promising to return for breakfast.<p>

I fell onto my bed, weary from the work we'd done, and drifted off into sleep.

* * *

><p>Luke met me in my dreams that night, carrying his ever-present knife. He chained me to the wall in the tiled passageway again, taunted me in his cool, smooth voice, cut my arms till the white tiles ran crimson with blood. Then he slit my throat.<p>

My dreams shifted to the cemetery where Claire was buried. The Inspector watched me from over her grave. His pudgy hands were folded in front of him, his eyes unblinking. He asked me if I was well, and then proceeded to call for Luke. There were lilies on the ground, blanketing the dark soil in white petals; I knew they meant death.

I woke before Luke reappeared, unable to breathe, trying to recall a good memory, any good memory, but I could not.

I lay shaking in my bed like a beaten puppy, my heart pounding sickeningly in my chest. I had no balcony to go to now, no Erik to hug me, no Madame Giry to tell me what was what, no Count to ask for advice.

I did not crawl down to Erik's home; I did not want to let him see me like this, although he had before. I was a grown-up! I could handle _dreams_, for heaven's sake!

I cried myself to sleep.


	9. Chapter 9: La Neige et Du Réunions

_Readers, this is where I depart from canon – please forgive me. But I want my story to be different – I have a distinct plot in mind, and some things I have changed. If you hate it, I'm sorry, but this is what I feel I'm supposed to be doing. (Tentative smile)_

_I hope you enjoy this chapter!_

* * *

><p>The next morning, I left my new room with my bag over my shoulder: it held the mysterious compass, my knife, and my book manuscript. My publisher had sent it back to me two days ago, asking me to reread it, incorporate his criticisms, and decide on a pseudonym, if I still wanted to use one. Erik and I had eaten breakfast in my room, during which he had told me that Honoré had called an impromptu meeting of the head employees (myself included) in the dining hall this afternoon. It seemed that he wanted to discuss the popularity of the Opera. The ticket sales were still low.<p>

The meeting was at 2, so I still had time to leisurely peruse my manuscript on the roof. The Phantom had suddenly thought of another line of music while we were eating our eggs, so he was down in his home composing. And I had checked my old room earlier – there were no new notes from the slippery Blackmailer, which could mean anything, but at least I did not have to worrying about reading yet another veiled threat.

And now I hurried through the secret passageways, holding my candle high so I could read the handdrawn map Erik had given me. He had been working on it for nearly a month, and this morning, he had finally finished. I squinted down at the fine, straight black lines, found the passageway marked _Backstage Corridor_, and went on. With this map, I would be able to traverse the entire Opera unseen; if it were to fall into the wrong hands, it would lead to problems. Erik had removed most of the traps he had created over the years, with the exception of the ones in the passageway beyond the mirror door in my new room. He refused to let me go down there with him – apparently, there was only space enough for one person at a time, and whatever barriers lay behind that mirror were dangerous. I folded the map up, having memorized my route, and slid it inside my cloak.

Andre Roquefort stood off to the side, in one of the wings of the stage, his hands behind his back, watching the rehearsal. His blond head shone against the red of the curtains; his back was ramrod straight. Once again, I felt that pang of panic and nervousness as my eyes met his figure – I knew he didn't know I was there, but the remembrance of my past life was jarring.

Madame Giry was on the other side of the stage, speaking with a stagehand; perhaps it was someone she knew, because she looked unusually happy. He had a large Roman nose, graying golden-brown hair, and he was holding a scroll in one hand. It was difficult to resist eavesdropping on the conversation; I finally began to get a sense of how Erik felt when watching the Opera populace from his many hiding places.

I passed stealthily through the backstage props, away from the noise of the stage (the ballet girls and singers seemed to be practicing the Water entrée, due to their blue and green costumes), heading for the Count's office. I wanted to speak to him about the meeting.

However, the Count had guests – Honoré and Jeannette were in his office, talking; or rather, the men were laughing about something and Jeannette was not. She had taken a book off the bookshelf, and stood with her back to them, reading. I watched from behind the prima donna portrait – there was a peephole hidden in the corner of the painted woman's elbow – as the Count's eyes flickered to her, away from Honoré's boyish face. His gaze was wistful. I turned and went down the corridor, wondering what had put that look into his eyes. Perhaps he and Jeannette had had another argument.

It was clear that nothing interesting was happening in the lower portion of the Opera (and I could talk to the Count during lunch, when he did not have visitors), so I continued my ascent to the roof.

* * *

><p>I left the hidden passageways behind long before I reached the top floor – since Roquefort was down below onstage, completely oblivious to my existence, it was meaningless to continue hiding. Besides, I had no intention of using the tiled passageway to reach the roof. Venturing into that familiar corridor would only bring back haunting memories of knives and blood and Luke. Strange how that name was connected to so much violence; I could not even stand to think of the word now, for fear that it would bring back mental images of danger and fear.<p>

I pushed the stairwell door and came out onto the roof; snow was falling from the grey sky overhead, and the wind was brutally strong up here. It tugged at my scarf and my hair and my shawl, threatening to rip them from me: I wrapped my arms around myself, bent my head to the ground, and hurried in the direction of the garden. Its high walls would keep the fiercer winds out.

The snow lay thickly across the cobblestones, hiding them completely from view. The statues, once pale cream, were wrapped in stark white powder. In this weather, the roof resembled another world; everything was white and colorless, and the garden gate was no longer black iron, but an icy white.

I had chosen the garden as a reading place for two reasons – one, there was a covered gazebo inside, where one could light a fire in the fireplace, and I had brought blankets up two weeks earlier, so I would be warm; and two, I doubted anyone would come up to the roof in such inclement weather. I needed time to think.

* * *

><p>It had only been an afternoon and a night since Erik had revealed his face to me after I had broken down in the dining hall. We had left the hall, walking through the hidden passageways to my old room. I hadn't known exactly what he was going to tell me, but I had a guess.<p>

He had sat down on my couch and stared around the room for a moment, his face abstracted, his long fingers alternately clenching and unclenching in his lap, and I had stood in front of him, waiting.

When he did not speak for a full ten seconds (which was highly unusual for him), I decided to ask a question.

"Erik, what is going on?"

The words, albeit blunt, were gentle when I spoke them.

The Phantom had glanced up at me, away from his hands. "I've decided something."

"You're just sitting there," I pointed out. "What have you decided?"

Erik, prodded into action by my words, got to his feet. "You do know that I wear a mask, right?"

I raised my eyebrows and stared at him disbelievingly.

He pressed onward, ignoring me. "Well, don't you?"

"Yes," I said, throwing my hands into the air. "Have I suddenly gone blind or something?"

"Irene," Erik said, taking a breath. "I'm trying to start this off right. Have a heart, won't you?"

"I'm trying," I said, "but you're acting oddly and I have this strange urge to shake you. And I'd rather not, as you weigh a lot more than I do, so…"

The Phantom eyed me as though he was considering the idea of dropping me out the window.

"All right," he said at last, sighing. "I wear a mask. Haven't you ever wondered why?"

I nodded. I had decided that speechlessness, however brief, would be the best course of action to take at this time.

He turned away from me, to the wall. "I'm doing this all wrong."

"Erik, you idiot," I said, looking wildly around for something to throw at him, "I don't care what your face looks like; haven't you figured this out by now? Just tell me what you want to say."

"I'd rather not say much more," was his muffled reply. "In fact, I'll just show you."

He swiveled round. The mask was gone. His face was bare.

I stared.

* * *

><p>Three pale lines cut across the left side of his face: one rippled through his brown cheekbone, another through his eyebrow, leaping his eye and cutting into the bridge of his nose; the last curved from the bottom of his ear into the skin under his mouth. It was as though someone had taken the left half of his face apart and inexpertly put it back together – the lines did not match up entirely. The scars were white and clear; the eye blinking from behind the highest was dark with emotion.<p>

"Erik," I said, finally finding my voice. "Is this all?"

The Phantom said nothing.

"Erik," I said, again, "the scars do not matter. I wouldn't care if your eyes were crimson and your hair nonexistent; if your face was purple and green and mottled with pink spots. I don't care what you look like. You are beautiful to me."

So strong were the vivid emotions in his eyes – it was as though he was a child again, so young and unguarded he looked. I went towards him, drew his head down, and kissed the lowest scar.

"I love you," I told him. "Never doubt that."

* * *

><p>I sat in the gazebo, my arms wrapped around my legs, my manuscript open before me. The fire was burning cheerfully in the grate; the snow fell outside unceasingly. I wondered if Erik had finished composing yet. I was nearly done reading.<p>

The publisher had only written a few corrections and comments in my book; the rest he had left untouched. I stared at the first page, the page where I was supposed to write my name, and held the pen poised over the white paper. What should I write? My real name? My fake one? A new pseudonym?

If I published under Irene Dubois, no reporters would arrive to bother me at the Opera, but my parents would surely hear of it. They would probably ignore it, for the most part, but their friends and relatives might show up in Paris and find out I was living in the Opera under an assumed name. And now that I had finally thought it out, I had realized that if my parents got wind that their remaining daughter was living in a big city under a fake name, writing mad books about ghosts, they would be understandably scandalized. They would hire a private inspector, or come down in person to lecture me.

And the Inspector, I didn't doubt, would show up at the precise moment to announce to everyone that I had committed a terrible crime. The elusive Blackmailer would probably decide to come too; and then I would have a grand time running around the city trying to avoid the police. Furthermore, Erik would get involved, and so would Madame Giry and the Count, and everything would go up in flames.

But if I published under Katelienne Laurent, reporters would flock (that is, if the public either loved or hated my book) and I would never have any peace. True, the Opera sales would go up, due to people coming to ogle me and laugh behind their hands, but I would be miserable. Erik would be unhappy, too, because I would be unhappy. Madame Giry, if she was here, would tell me it would all be worth it in the long run.

And I had to agree she was right. I put the pen down and began to write.

* * *

><p><em><strong>The Opera Ghost: Friend? Foe? Or – Fiction?<strong>_

_A Novel _

_by Katelienne Laurent_

* * *

><p>I blew on the ink to dry it, and shut the book, tucking it away under my cloak. I leaned forward and stretched my hands out towards the flames, breathing in the smell of smoke and fire. The little gazebo was cozy and dry, after the snowy maelstrom of the roof, and I was getting sleepy. I didn't want to leave and go back into the noisy Opera, with its maze of dark passageways and constant bustle of people. I wrapped my cloak more firmly around myself, leaned back against the wall, and dozed off.<p>

* * *

><p>The stomp of boots on the steps outside awoke me: someone was banging the snow off their boots, someone male. I quickly gathered my things up and stuffed them into my bag. The door opened, bringing a ghastly breeze of snow and cold inside; the male person stood on the doorstep, peering uncertainly inside.<p>

"For heaven's sake, shut the door!" I snapped.

The male person started, hurried over the threshold, and slammed the door behind him. As he came closer to the fire, the red glare brought his face into focus: it was Andre Roquefort.

I stared at him in horror. He stared back without recognition.

"I'm sorry," he said, twisting his gloved hands together. "I thought the gazebo was unoccupied."

"I'm sorry I yelled at you," I said, wondering how I was going to get out of this one. "It's not, you see. What are you doing on the roof?"

Roquefort took off his hat, belatedly remembering he was in the presence of a lady, and shuffled his feet on the floor. "The Opera is rather loud right now. The manager has called a meeting, you see, and he's ordered everyone to take the rest of the afternoon off. So the workers are 'decorating' for Christmas – but really they're drinking and having a good time. I decided to come up here and get some fresh air, but it's a blizzard outside."

I had only registered half of his speech. "A meeting?"

"Yes," Roquefort said, sitting down and staring meditatively into the fire. "Did you get this fire going by yourself?"

"The firewood was already here," I said, hurriedly getting to my feet. "What time is it?"

"Two-thirty," the man next to me replied. "Is something wrong?"

"I'm late," I told him. "I'll see you later."

I left him staring after me, his hazel eyes curious, his head tilted as if he knew me from somewhere but couldn't place me. Fervently, I hoped he would never do so. I had enough problems already.

* * *

><p>I arrived in the dining hall to find the Count, Madame Giry, Honoré, and a man I didn't recognize, sitting at the middle table, drinking hot chocolate and chatting.<p>

"I'm so sorry I'm late," I said, dropping my bag on the table and sinking onto the bench besides Madame Giry. "What did I miss?"

Francis looked up with a grin – he had a chocolate mustache. I blinked.

"We haven't started yet," he said. "Have some hot chocolate."

"I'll go get some for her," Honoré said, smiling avidly at me. "Do you want cream?" he asked me.

I shook my head. "No, thank you. Er – Francis – you have something on…" I indicated the upper lip region.

The Count fumbled for a napkin, brought it to his face, and completely missed the chocolate. Madame Giry put a hand over her mouth before she could laugh. The man next to her turned his face towards mine; I realized that he was the person I had seen Madame Giry conversing onstage with this morning.

"How do you do," he said, extending his hand. "I'm Ferdinand Hunter, the head stagehand. You're not that late, by the way; we haven't talked about anything except for beverages."

I shook his hand, smiling back at the older man. "It's a pleasure to meet you. And thank goodness about that, I was so rattled when I discovered I was late."

"Francis," Madame Giry said, after smiling at me in welcome, "what exactly are we here for? What did you want to talk about?"

"Actually, I was the one who wanted to talk to all of you," Honoré said, coming down the aisle with a mug in his hand and a politician's charming smile on his lips. "It's time to discuss the Opera House's future."

The meeting ran for a long time, and during that interval, I learned about how much people could talk. Honoré spent most of his time spouting off about how we all needed to work together in order to rescue the Opera from the wolves. Madame Giry simply sat there, her hands folded before her, occasionally nodding in agreement; the head stagehand kept interrupting to mention his workers' wages, and the Count had to break up little confrontations every half minute, as I had taken a disliking to Honoré.

"Well, why should we hold three balls?" I demanded, digging my fingernails into the bench. "I think that would rather _deplete_ our funds instead of raising them. According to Garmin's old records, he wasted more money on that last ball than gathering it in."

Madame Giry nodded.

Honoré, who I had directed my question to, smirked at me and said, "I'm glad you brought that up, Katelienne. We'll be charging much more for tickets this time than Garmin – whoever he was – did last time. _Everyone_ will have to pay, not only the lower class guests."

Francis cleared his throat. "You don't mean the workers in the Opera House, of course, do you?"

Honoré turned to look at him. "Well, yes, I did. I'll be paying too, you know."

The head stagehand banged his fist on the table. "I am not going to force my workers to pay to attend a ball they've worked for!"

The patron shrugged. "They'll be contributing to the cause. Don't we want to keep this Opera afloat?"

He looked around at all our disagreeable faces, paused for a moment, and said, "Well, instead of three balls, how about this? We each contribute something substantial to the Opera House, in the way of raising popularity, of course, and the ticket sales will go up on their own."

He had put it so obliquely that I wasn't quite sure what he meant, but I had a guess. I sat up and said, "I can publish my book."

"Under your rea- ow!"

Francis looked startled and pained; Madame Giry must have kicked him under the table before he could blurt out the rest of his ill-timed question.

I ignored this little interruption and continued, "It's about the Opera Ghost, so I wouldn't doubt that people would be interested. Once they read it, they will probably have very strong opinions about it – I think they'd come to the Opera just to laugh at me."

Honoré's eyebrows went up. It seemed he hadn't expected a sensible idea from me. He stood there for a moment (he had gotten to his feet when the argument started), scratched the side of his head, and opened his mouth to speak.

The head stagehand spoke over him. "I think that's a fine idea."

"Me too," Madame Giry said. "Enough with the blather about balls. Katelienne can publish and continue to write ads; Francis can invite important people to the next performance, and Honoré-" she glanced skeptically at him "-can continue to feed his funds into the Opera's upkeep. Hunter and I will see to the needs of our workers. I believe this meeting is over."

When Madame Giry spoke, people listened. I got to my feet, slung my bag over my shoulder, waved at my friends, and left the dining hall. I wanted to go mail my book back to my publisher. On the way I'd pick up a few things for Christmas – I still hadn't started my shopping yet.

* * *

><p><em>Reviews are welcome - tell me what you think!<em>


	10. Chapter 10: Questions, et Leurs Réponses

_Thank you for your kind - and very helpful - reviews!_

_Enjoy!_

* * *

><p>It was cold and blustery outside; I had to hire a carriage quickly before my cloak ripped itself off of me and blew away into the snowdrifts.<p>

Once inside, I rapped on the window to alert the driver, and leaned back into my seat, watching the snow ripple down outside. Erik would not be happy that I had disregarded his idea of taking people with me when I went out, but I was about to do something that none of my friends in the Opera would approve of.

When the carriage drew up outside the newsstand, I opened the door and dropped out into the snow, hurrying towards the brightly lit windows in the little building. I had already put my book in the mail; I was here to deliver the Count's ads, and to check on an ad of my own.

The newspaper editor knew me by sight now; he only grunted as I slid the ads across the counter to him and handed him the money. In return, he put my ads into a drawer, fished around for some change, and gave me a newspaper.

"My ad?" I asked, taking the paper from him. "Has it had any responses?"

He held up a gnarled finger, opened another drawer, and pulled out a thin strip of paper. "Young woman wrote this," he grunted, handing it to me. "Came in here a few days ago. Left fast. Looked suspicious-like."

I nodded, folded the strip of paper in half and dropped it into my pocket. "Thank you."

* * *

><p>When I had returned to the carriage, I took the paper out. The woman's handwriting was so small it was nearly illegible.<p>

I screwed up my eyes and deciphered it.

_The heavy-set, small-eyed man you are looking for, Monsieur Dumont, is still in Paris. I saw him last week at my bakery, on Boulevard Saint-Germain_. _I do not know if he will return. I hope this is helpful._

It was dated two weeks ago – it had been a long time since – but the Inspector was in Paris.

* * *

><p>Erik was pacing up and down on the shore of the lake, humming, when I fought my way free of some curtains next to the organ, tripped over my own feet, and landed in a heap on the ground.<p>

"How did you get back here?" the Phantom demanded, stepping over a pile of papers and offering me a hand.

I took it, grinning up at him. "Oh, wouldn't you like to know."

Erik frowned. "You wouldn't have… No, you didn't, did you? I _told_ you not to use that passageway, Irene. I said it was dangerous. I said there were traps that you didn't know how to escape. You never listen to me, do you?"

"I survived," I told him. "There were only three traps, anyways. Oh, don't; I have something to tell you."

He had tried to kiss me; he wrapped an arm around my waist and drew me closer to him, his long fingers curling around my side. I pushed his head away and tried to speak, but it was difficult to do so because I was laughing.

"All right, I'm listening," the Phantom muttered over my head, trying to detach my fingers from his face. "Can you kindly let go of my chin? Your fingers are like tiny vises."

After doing so, I executed a neat bit of footwork and slipped out of his grasp. "I've found the Inspector!"

Erik, who had been toying with my fingers, let go and looked down at me, his eyes piercing.

"You have? How?"

"Never mind that; all that matters is that he's _here_, in Paris. Of course, I have no idea about what we should do with him – besides throw him in jail, but that's clearly impossible without proof, so…"

"We'll leave him be," Erik said, pulling me closer to him. "Irene, we can't do anything about him now. The only way we could possibly turn him in would be if he did something unlawful. And you can't follow him around Paris, I forbid it."

"You've forbidden things before," I reminded him. "But this time you happen to be right. I have no intention of wandering around Paris looking for a crazed accomplice to kidnapping."

"I was right earlier, too!" Erik insisted, ignoring the rest of my statement. "But enough about the Inspector. How was the meeting?"

"You didn't watch it? Oh, what's that?"

There was something on the shore, something that resembled an easel. It was facing away from me, so I couldn't see what was propped upon the wood. I took a step towards it. Erik glanced over his shoulder, frowned uncharacteristically, and said, "Why don't we go inside?"

I raised my eyebrows. "Well, if you insist."

Perhaps it was a Christmas present for someone. Although I had no idea who. Well, I did have _some_ idea, especially after Erik had so rudely ignored my question, but I wasn't about to let _him_ know that. My Christmas presents were hidden carefully away upstairs in my room, out of sight of prying eyes.

* * *

><p>We retired to the living room, a room Erik did not normally frequent, and I sat down in a chair in front of the fire. Wednesday crept through the door and hesitated, her blind head swiveling from Erik to me.<p>

"Come here, kitty," I murmured, in a sappy, syrupy tone of adoration. "You love me the most, kitty. Come here, Wednesday, kitty, kitty, kitty."

Erik did nothing, only stood there and pretended disinterest.

The cat went to him.

I sat back in my chair with a huff. "She _would_ choose you over me. So what is that easel doing on the shore out there?"

"No reason," Erik said, picking up the cat and leaning against the fireplace. "The meeting?"

"Boring and monotonous," I said, scowling at the flames. "That Honoré man is really making me mad. He harped on and on for hours about throwing zillions of balls this year; the only thing that finally shut him up was when I announced I was going to publish my book."

"_The_ book?"

"What other book have I written?"

The Phantom drew himself up to his full height and looked down his nose at me. He did not seem prepared to dignify my question with a response, so I sighed and went on.

"Yes, the book I've been writing for ages. _That_ book. So I told them I would publish it, and everyone seemed happy. Happi_er_, at least. Honoré could drive anyone insane."

Erik detached Wednesday's claws from his shirt and put her on my lap, wincing at the holes in the white linen. "This is the third time I've patched this shirt this week alone. So Honoré wouldn't stop talking… Anything else?"

"No," I said, wondering why he was so interested. "Tell me what you spent your morning doing. My morning was uneventful and boring and useless. Oh, except for running into Roquefort. He didn't even recognize me!"

"How old were you when he was around?" the Phantom inquired. "Perhaps you don't look the same anymore."

"I know, I looked different now than I did three or four years ago. But isn't that wonderful? I'll just continue to wander around the Opera as Katelienne Laurent and no one will know the difference. Now, what about your morning?"

"I composed," Erik said, staring thoughtfully off into the distance, "I read, I practiced the organ, I wrote a song, I ate lunch, and I was just about to go write down another line of music when you showed up. Are you hungry?"

I shook my head. "But I'll welcome some more hot chocolate."

* * *

><p>Erik and I passed a quiet, happy afternoon together, bothering each other, teasing the cat, and generally having a fine time.<p>

It was only after he threatened to pour my hot chocolate down the sink that I stopped mimicking him.

"You have to admit that was funny," I said weakly, wiping an errant tear from under my eye. "I really do sound like you!"

"I really do sound like you," Erik retorted in my voice. He reverted back to his. "I would never sound like that in a thousand years."

"Give me back my hot chocolate."

"Not until you admit you were wrong."

I laughed at him. "You must be very stupid if you think I'm _ever _going to admit something completely untrue like that!"

Erik raised his eyebrows, lifted the mug high into the air, holding it above the sink. "You have thirty seconds."

I crossed my arms. "I can always make another pot."

"I used the last of the chocolate. Now you have twenty seconds."

"I'll go buy some, then," I said, still laughing. "I'm not going to say it."

"Ten seconds."

* * *

><p>It was the arrival of Madame Giry that rescued my hot chocolate from an early demise; I leapt to my feet and wrested it out of Erik's grip as he turned to see who had entered.<p>

"Children, children," she said, standing in the doorway with her hands behind her back. "I was wondering where you got to, Irene."

No matter how innocent I felt, it only took a few words from Madame Giry to make me stop doing something. Erik stepped away from me (he had lost the tug of war; on purpose, I thought), his hands innocently in the air.

"She wandered down here to see me, Madame," he said, shooting me a malevolent glance over his shoulder.

I shot him one back. "Would you like to sit down, Antoinette?"

"Thank you, Irene," Madame Giry said, taking a chair. "Erik always seems to forget that part of common courtesy. But let's drop the subject – I have something to show you two."

Erik sat down across from her; I leaned over his shoulder, my hands on the back of his chair.

"What is it?"

She had taken a newspaper out of her bag and spread it out on the table.

Her finger came to rest on a headline.

"This."

Erik and I bent close to the newspaper, the black ink dark against the grey-white of the paper.

_DUCHESS OF ROUEN DEAD BY POISON_

_THIRD CASE OF POISONING IN TWO MONTHS_

"And how does this affect us?"

It was Erik, not I, who asked the question I had been about to utter.

Madame Giry whisked the newspaper away from us and folded it up. Over the rustling of papers, she said, "Everything, Erik. It has everything to do with us."

This eerie proclamation struck me as rather ominous. I sat down next to Erik. "Tell us what you mean, Antoinette. Are you saying you know who the poisoner is? Is it the Inspector?"

"I have no idea _who_ it is, Irene; all I know is that the people who have died over the last two months are people who were at the masquerade last year. Look, I have the clippings here."

She took two more pieces of newspaper out of her bag.

"The first one was this poor man Stuart Longhedge; he died after drinking a cup of tea with friends. The second was Elizabeth Hanners; she was the friend of one of my ballet girls. She went out to eat in a café and came back nauseous and feverish; she died the next day. Both of them were poisoned with gilsien, and both of them attended the masquerade."

"As did the Duchess," I said, my mind going back to the events of the masked ball. "You're saying they're all connected to the Opera House."

Erik pushed his chair back and got to his feet. "Madame, now we're going off on wild theories. There were at least two hundred people at that ball; we can't simply assume that they died because of a masquerade party."

Madame Giry looked up at him. "Erik, we can't assume either that their deaths have nothing to do with it, either! This is important. We should keep our eyes open."

"The first man," I said, causing Antoinette to look over at me, "was he a friend of anyone? Did he know someone here?"

Erik picked up the newspaper clippings.

Antoinette shook her head. "No, he didn't. As far as I can tell. I've been asking around the Opera, but no one's ever heard of him. I'm not even sure why he came to the masquerade, if he had no one to talk to."

The Phantom laid the papers back down on the table. "I wouldn't worry about it, Madame. If the poisoner is truly killing people who attended the masquerade, he has a good one hundred and ninety-two people to dispose of before he gets to us."

"Or she," I said, thoughtfully. "Do you think the poisoner and the Blackmailer are connected?"

Madame Giry, who was frowning at Erik, shrugged coldly. "I don't know. But I have to go back upstairs now; I only wanted to inform you two of current events. Thank you for listening."

She got to her feet, stuffed the papers back inside, and made her way towards the door.

I poked Erik, who flinched and caught my hand in his, holding it away from his side.

"Go apologize," I hissed. "I'll wash the mugs."

Erik sighed, let go of my hand, and headed after her.

* * *

><p>When I returned to my new room around seven that night, I found a note under my door. It was with a sinking heart that I picked it up and turned it over.<p>

To my great surprise, it was from Honoré – on its front he had scrawled:

* * *

><p><em>To Katelienne Laurent<em>

_From Honoré_

_An Apology_

* * *

><p>I opened it.<p>

* * *

><p><em>Dear Mademoiselle Katelienne,<em>

_I know I probably offended you this afternoon – I wanted to say, simply, that I am sorry. It was never my intention to upset you. Would dinner out tomorrow night better your opinion of me?_

_If so, meet me at the Rue Scribe entrance tomorrow at six. If not, you can ignore this note (or throw it in the fire, whatever you wish) and continue to treat me like the scum I am._

_Yours sincerely,_

_Honoré_

* * *

><p>It took a moment for the note's question to sink in. Was he <em>really<em> asking me out to dinner?

"Erik," I said, without thinking, "come look at this."

The Phantom was not in my room, and I didn't think he was in the passageway, but he appeared in the mirror door in less than a minute.

* * *

><p>"You forgot this," he explained, holding up my compass. "What do you want me to look at?"<p>

I took the compass from him and handed him the note. "It's from Honoré. He wants me to go out to eat with him. As if!"

Erik's brow drew into a frown. "Really. And why does he think you'll agree?"

"I have no idea," I said, taking the note away from him and throwing it in the general direction of the fire. "Have you opened this thing yet?"

I was referring to the compass; Erik shook his head and sat down on my window seat. "Didn't you want to?"

I tossed it to him. "You can. I'm going to go take my hair down; these pins are starting to annoy me."

* * *

><p>When I came out of the bathroom, Erik had pried the compass open and laid the contents on the window seat.<p>

He glanced up at me, his dark hair gleaming in the moonlight from the window, and said, "Well, it's not what I expected, but I suppose it will do."

A large, glittering diamond, attached to a long chain, lay on the wood next to him.

I stared at it. "Is it real?"

"Yes."

"What am I going to do with it?"

"You could wear it," Erik suggested. "What about at the winter ball?"

"I could never wear _that_," I said, sinking down next to him and continuing to stare. "I wonder whose it was. Before it ended up in the compass, I mean. I hope it wasn't a priceless family heirloom."

"It's yours now," the Phantom said with a shrug. He glanced over at me. "The Count _gave_ the compass to you, Irene. You own it, and whatever is inside of it too. I suppose if it had a dead mouse in there you'd give it back to him?"

"Oh, quit that," I said with disgust. "It just seems wrong, for some reason. What am I going to do with it?"

Erik shrugged again and put his arm around my shoulders. "We don't have to decide now. What are you going to do for the rest of the night?"

"I was going to take a bath, but you're here now," I said, drawing my feet up onto the window seat and turning to look out at the bright stars. "We can just sit here and find constellations instead. Oh, look, I see Orion!"

* * *

><p>Erik found nearly twenty different constellations before I finally located the North Star.<p>

"I'm a genius," he informed me.

I pretended to have gone temporarily deaf and stared out the window, ignoring him. I had put the necklace back in the compass, shut the hidden lid, and stuffed it into the bottom of my suitcase. Erik had agreed not to mention it to anyone until I deemed it necessary to.

"_I love you,_" he sang in my ear.

I decided I could hear again.

"I love you too, you wretch."


	11. Chapter 11: Ses Amis

_I know this chapter's short, but the next one will make up for it!_

_I welcome any and all reviews!_

* * *

><p>A week passed, and the winter ball was almost upon us.<p>

The Opera House's insides had been lavished with green garlands of ivy and littered profusely with poinsettias; the walkways through the lower gardens were lined with new white and red rosebushes in honor of Christmas. And the roof had undergone some dramatic changes… Yes, the roof was another matter completely.

My sanctuary from the noises and problems of the Opera House had become a favorite meeting place for Honoré, a few of the scene painters, several ballet girls, and a gaggle of the younger stagehands.

I stood in the shadow of one of the taller angel statues, watching from behind an outstretched wing as the patron and his friends tried to open the garden's heavy gates. They were shaking it and laughing at one another; one of them was attempting to climb up the railings, his feet fumbling for a purchase on the slippery metal.

It was not snowing today. Earlier this morning, workers had come up to the rooftop and cleared it of snow, leaving the grey cobblestones bare and the statues bereft of their white coverings. I assumed this had been done according to Honoré's wishes: after the workers had departed, he had arrived with his entourage in tow.

The man clinging to the gate lost his grip and slid down, to the loud groans of the onlookers.

"Try again!" someone urged him. "We'll never get it open if you give up now!"

I threw back my hood, took a deep breath, and emerged from behind the statue.

* * *

><p>It took only a few seconds for me to stride across the cobblestones before I reached them. Honoré was oblivious to my appearance – he was talking with one of the ballet girls – but the others stopped laughing and turned to look at me.<p>

"I'm afraid the garden's off limits," I said, coldly. "Monsieur Auger, what are you doing up here at this hour?"

"It's a free country, milady," Honoré said with a deep, mocking bow. The others laughed. "I'm simply enjoying the morning. Why, do you own it?"

He was referring to the roof. I raised my eyebrows. "No. But I would like you – and your friends – to leave the garden alone."

"Do you own _that _too?" Honoré inquired.

I really had no idea what had gotten into him – was he suddenly a teenager again? I put my hands on my hips and gave him a long, scathing stare.

"No. But according to the manager, I am responsible for its upkeep. I suggest you do as I say."

Honoré shrugged, bowed again, and went towards the stairwell. His friends fell into line behind him, all of them avoiding my gaze, but whether this was from enmity or embarrassment I could not tell.

The patron paused at the door, turning to face me. "Did you get my note?"

"The answer to it is no," I said, and unlocked the garden gate with my key. "Good day, Monsieur."

* * *

><p>After shooing the annoying roofers away, I went into the gazebo to light the fire. Erik was supposed to meet me in about five minutes, according to the bells ringing around the city. So was Madame Giry, but she had told me she would be late, as she wanted to start up rehearsals before coming to meet us.<p>

Someone was in the gazebo; I could hear the sound of scuffling from inside. I reached for my knife, took a firm grip on the doorknob, and pulled the door open.

"Finally, someone shows up to rescue me," the Count groaned from his position on the floor, next to the fireplace. "I have no idea how to light this thing."

I laughed, found a box of matches in my bag, and held them up. "Fancy seeing you here, Francis; I thought you said you'd be an hour or so late."

The Count got up so I could step past him and light the fire. "No, I decided to come up here early. I wanted a bit of quiet. You know how the Opera is before the holidays."

"I don't, actually," I said, shaking the match out as the flames in the grate whooshed up. "I only arrived this year. Francis, do tell me – were you the one who told Honoré he could disturb the peace of my rooftop and break into the garden with his friends?"

Francis looked sheepish. "I did tell him that the roof, if he wanted to sweep it off, could function as a place for him to temporarily entertain guests. But I informed him that the garden was not for public use."

"He acted like a fifteen-year-old," I said, getting to my feet. "Did you happen to hear the clanging and banging from the garden gate?"

"No, I was asleep," the Count admitted. "I had only just woken up when you opened the doors. Was that you talking?"

"It was. I told Honoré and his friends to leave. What has gotten into the man? One day he's telling all of us to work together in order to save the Opera from total _ruin_, and the next, he's egging on random stagehands to break into private gardens."

Francis sat down on the bench and stared pathetically at his shoes. "I shouldn't have hired him. I hate my job."

I hurriedly retracted my statement. "No, no, Count! I like Honoré much better than that other woman! While he is odd – and a little bizarre – and definitely lacking in manners, I must say that at least he's _attempting_ to do his job. And on that note, has he been supporting the Opera with funds?"

"Yes, he has. Considerable amounts, too. Oh – good morning, Erik."

Erik acknowledged the Count with a grunt and a nod. He was standing in the doorway, shaking snow off his boots.

I darted past him to look out into the garden: it was snowing again.

"How wonderful!"

"The snow?" Erik said. "Yes, I suppose you could say so." He strode into the room, sat down on the bench, and proceeded to take out a pipe.

"I found this on the ground outside of the gate."

"It's not mine," the Count said, a bit hastily. "I don't smoke."

"It was probably one of the trespassers," I said, coming back into the room and sitting down next to Erik. "Possibly Honoré's."

"I thought I heard his nasally voice," Erik said, tossing the wooden, hand-carved pipe carelessly into the fire. "Seeing as no one's here to claim it…"

Francis stared at the pipe as it burst into flame. "But… but… but… that was someone's property!"

"Not anymore," the Phantom said, leaning back against the wall. "Now it's only ashes and dirt."

I hoped fervently that Madame Giry would show up soon.

* * *

><p>When she arrived, the Count had managed to ask Erik a question about music, and Erik, having launched himself headfirst into the topic, was going on at length about the pros and cons of opera nowadays.<p>

"I must say that opera-ballets are not as popular as one might have hoped they would be," he said, flipping a knife around his palm. He had taken it out of his pocket some time earlier – the Count had made sure to move a few feet over in order to avoid losing an eye. "Ballet is appreciated, true, but the singers may take a backstage to the dancers, and the public does not always like that. I, on the other hand, don't care who is doing what as long as the _music_ is fine. Music is what matters the most."

The door swung open.

Madame Giry scuffed her shoes genteelly on the threshold, entered, and asked, "Why are we having this meeting? Irene? Anyone?"

"We're here to discuss the winter ball, Antoinette," I said. "Why? Did something happen?"

"No, dear, I only wanted to clarify." She shut the door and crossed the room to sit down next to the Count. "Francis, you were going to tell us about the ball?"

"Yes," the Count said, sounding serious. "It will not be a masque; Honoré hates them, as he's told me several times. I thought we should bow to our patron's wishes, and so I have. The theme is art, so there will be a painting exhibit in the foyer, sculptures in the lower gardens, and posing in the ballroom."

"Posing?" I asked.

"We're going to have people pose as various figures in famous paintings."

Erik glanced over at me. "That sounds like an interesting idea."

"No, you can't pose, Erik," Madame Giry said, catching his drift. "You will remain hidden in the walls, watching the festivities from afar."

She concluded this rather flippant sentence with a nod.

I looked at Erik. He scowled. "How boring."

The Count began to look tense; one could almost see the sweat forming on his face. "Back to the subject of the ball. I have invited several distinguished old families, such as the Roqueforts, the Canailles, and the -"

"The Roqueforts? Oh, no, you invited _them_? I'm not going to be able to attend."

I had forgotten to tell Francis about my family's tie to the Roqueforts; after Andre hadn't recognized me on the roof, I had decided that he was no longer a problem. I hadn't thought that the Count might actually take it upon himself to invite the patron's family to the winter ball, which was a usual thing for the manager to do. To put it simply, I had been stupid.

Francis blinked at me in shock. "Wait, what?"

I explained.

* * *

><p>The Count took this news better than I had expected. "I can't take their invitations away, Irene."<p>

Erik leaned forward, his eyes focused on the Count. "You can change the theme of the ball. Make it a masque instead. Honoré does not make the final decisions on these sorts of things, you do. Take a stand, Count. Be a man."

I winced.

Madame Giry nodded. "I agree. I think you have been altogether too agreeable towards the new patron. Yes, he is the one funding the ball, but you are the man who appointed him. You make the final decisions, not him."

The Count, attacked on all sides, looked at me with an unspoken, desperate plea.

I looked back at him with a rueful smile. "I agree with them, Francis. Tell Honoré your plans. As I recall, patrons and patronesses are not supposed to run roughshod over the managers; they are supposed to support them. Now it is Honoré's turn to support you."

Francis sighed, got to his feet, and squared his shoulders. "Alright, then, I'll go tell him. I'll see you all at lunch."

"Not me," I said. "I'll be elsewhere."

"I'll be there," Madame Giry said. "Now go, before you lose your nerve."

The Count nodded at all of us and went out the door.

* * *

><p>"Elsewhere?" Erik inquired, speaking to me. "Where do you intend to be?"<p>

"I thought I'd eat lunch with you," I said, stirring the fire with the poker. "I hope that's alright."

The Phantom grinned. "Of course."

Madame Giry, who was looking slightly bored, rose to her feet. "Goodbye, you two. I should follow the Count; I would love to hear his conversation with Honoré. And if he needs assistance, I can jump in and back him up."

She seemed altogether too eager to do so; from behind her, Erik raised his eyebrows. I looked away from him before I could laugh.

"Oh, stop it," she said, grimacing at us. "An old lady's got to have _some_ fun."

"One would think that an 'old' lady like you, Madame, had enough fun already," Erik commented dryly. "Seeing as you are the ballet instructor of the famed Palais Garnier."

"Instructing is just the same as work, Erik," Antoinette retorted. "Heaven knows I need some excitement. Wish me luck in my confrontation, Irene. Not that I need it, of course."

"Good luck," I said, smiling up at her. "Breakfast out tomorrow?"

"Yes, that would be lovely. Erik, I expect to see you too. My room, at eight."

Erik inclined his head in agreement. "Goodbye, Madame."

* * *

><p>When she had left, I turned to Erik with a question.<p>

"I suppose you're going to start acting as the Phantom again?"

He nodded, his dark eyes gleaming in anticipation. "I'm _bored_, Irene. And it doesn't matter what the _patron_ thinks; he's only a stupid man dressed up in frills and rings. At the ball tomorrow night I am going to have a little fun."

"Fun?"

"Something spectacular. You know the Opera populace has been wondering what's happened to me. I refuse to disappoint them. I suggest you simply sit back and let me do my work. It's been far too long since my last great show."

Despite my worries that Erik would go too far and scare the public away, I acquiesced. It _had_ been far too long since the Phantom's last appearance; at the very least, his return would cheer the workers, and I longed to see what the cool Honoré Auger would do when faced with a ghost.

"Very well," I said. "And now I'd like to ask another question. If you don't mind, of course."

I had taken his hand as I spoke; it was a personal matter I was about to ask about, and I didn't want him to feel as though he was alone.

Erik's fingers curled around mine. "Go ahead."

I swallowed. "Before I ask it, I want to tell you something. See this scar on my cheek? The one that I got from my fight with Luke?"

His eyes went cold, and the shoulder I leaned against tensed, the muscles hardening. "I remember."

"I don't mind this scar, Erik, or the one on my shoulder," I said, "because they're a reminder of something I fought – Luke – and won. But your scars – you mind them. Who gave them to you?"

I was blunt because I knew he would appreciate it better than softly whispered words; the more gentle I was, the less he would tell me, and the less relief he would feel in the end. And if he snapped back at me, I would know he wasn't ready and would desist.

Erik was fighting with himself, his beautiful green eyes darkening, the line of his jaw trembling as he gritted his teeth. His grip on my hand was almost painfully tight.

"It was long ago," he said, taking a controlled, sharp breath. "When I was a boy."

He stopped.

I waited, saying nothing. I would wait as long as he needed me to.

The Phantom took a deep breath, and went on.

* * *

><p><em>To be continued...<em>


	12. Chapter 12: Le Monstre avec le Couteau

_Erik, six years old._

_He sat in the dirt next to the Circusmaster's tent, drawing circles in the dust with a stick. The sun was setting over the gypsies' camp, and soon he would have to go to bed. He did not like bed; bed meant sleeping, and sleep was boring. This was why he was hiding from Old Iris, and this was why he was crouched between two tents: their sides, so close that they nearly touched, neatly obscured him from view._

_He could hear the cries of laughter and merriment from the bonfire in the middle of camp. The gypsies had camped deep in the forest; they had passed through the nearby towns already, collecting money with their tricks and games – and stealing some too. Erik was one of the young pickpockets, and he was very good at this nimble-fingered trade; without it, the gypsies would have left him behind long ago. The Circusmaster was careful about those he chose to travel with his group. If you brought nothing to the table (both figuratively, and literally) then they left you behind in the woods._

_It was a common enough practice, one that Erik had gotten used to. He feared it, but he had accepted it, as yet another staple of his life. You could say a lot of things about the scrawny, black-haired boy in the dirt, but you couldn't say he didn't know how to adapt._

_There was a shrill cry three tents away: Old Iris, calling for him. Erik sat perfectly still, listening. __**I don't want to go to bed**__, he thought, measuring each word out in his head. __**I don't want to go to bed. Let me stay here.**_

_With a great swish of cloth, the corner of the left tent was yanked back. Erik jumped to his feet, startled, and dropped his stick._

_It was not Old Iris, but he rather wished it was._

_Felix, a hulking older man who tended the horses, stood looking down at the boy, half his swarthy face obscured in shadow. _

"_The Circusmaster wants to see you," the groom said. His voice was cold, deep, and unfriendly._

_Erik did not like this man, but he knew his place in this life was far beneath the groom's. He would do as he was told._

_He nodded. Felix stepped aside to let him pass._

* * *

><p><em>The Circusmaster was not known for his kindness. He was not known for his gentleness, or his tenderness, or for his love. He was a man of pure, ruthless action.<em>

_He was, however, known for his cruelty. And, of course, his decisiveness._

* * *

><p><em>Erik pulled aside the tent flap and went into the Circusmaster's tent. He had only been in here twice – once, as a baby (he did not remember this, but Old Iris had told him); and the second time, a year ago, when he was given his job as pickpocket. <em>

_The tent was well-furnished with items pilfered or bought from the towns they had passed through; each of them was tended carefully; each of them was as precious as a jewel to the Circusmaster. It could be said that what the Circusmaster lacked in love for his people, he lavished on the things they brought him. You could win the man over with one valuable item, stolen or not, and he would cherish you for it. Of course, you would have to win him over again at the next forest campsite, but this was to be expected._

_The people in this tent were only grown-ups, unlike the tent Erik lived in, which was filled to bursting with other young gypsy boys. The adults here stood tall above the six-year-old; Erik could only see their waists, unless he craned his head back to stare upwards. But he did not look up. He stumbled his way through the people, found himself in the center of the tent, and came to a halt._

_The Circusmaster was a short, balding man with the poise of a king. He sat across from Erik in a massive wooden chair, a chair that was rumored to weigh as much as two full-grown horses; a chair entirely inscribed with fanciful designs. A leaping stag hovered in midair on the curling scroll of the armrest; a long, sinuous snake wound itself around one of the legs; a man, chased by a lion, ascended the snake's coils._

_Erik swallowed. He could not tear his fascinated, horrified eyes away from the fantastic pictures – they flickered luridly in the red glow of the fire behind him. Its heat burned into the back of his arms and scalded his neck._

"_Look at me, boy," the Circusmaster commanded._

_Erik lifted his head, his mouth as dry as old paper._

"_Tell me the amount of money you collected at the last town."_

_Erik licked his lips and began to recite. "Three francs from the old man at the puppet show, six from the woman in the red feathered hat, one from…"_

_He jumped as the Circusmaster threw his silver goblet to the ground. It bounced once, twice, then lay still on the faded rug under the carved chair._

"_Don't give me a long speech, boy. Tell me the total."_

_The adults, who had been gabbing quietly with one another, fell silent at this change of events._

_Erik cleared his throat and tried again. "I… um… I…"_

_The Circusmaster took a long, slow breath, reached down to pick up his goblet, and settled it carefully in his lap. He turned it over in his hands, admiring the silver._

_Erik wondered if the Circusmaster had forgotten he was there._

_But he hadn't. He put the goblet down carefully on the arm of his chair. "Tell me the total."_

_Erik longed to vanish, or even to run wildly through the adults and out of the tent, but it felt as though his feet were screwed to the ground._

"_Ten francs."_

_The Circusmaster, satisfied, picked up his goblet. "And do you think that is enough?"_

_Erik nodded._

"_Do you think __**I**__ think that is enough?"_

_Erik, caught, did not know whether to say yes or no. He stared at his feet instead._

_This was a poor decision. The Circusmaster reached for a glass figurine of a dog and threw it._

_The dog shattered on the table next to Erik, flinging clear shards everywhere, and the boy ducked instinctively. The pieces rained down on the rug, sinking deep into the cloth. _

* * *

><p><em>Erik, unharmed but shaken, shifted imperceptibly away from the Circusmaster's chair.<em>

"_Tell me, do you think __**I**__ think ten francs is enough? What is your name, boy?"_

"_Erik," Erik stammered out. "But that is all I could get, sir."_

"_Did I ask for excuses?" the Circusmaster snarled, his hairy fingers tightening on the arms of his chair._

_Erik shook his head, watching him warily in case the crazed man decided to throw something else._

"_Who here thinks ten francs is enough for a life here?" the Circusmaster said, speaking now to the adults in the room. "Anyone? Anyone?"_

_The silence was cold and deafening; Erik felt his legs shaking under him. Was he to be thrown out like trash? Discarded in the wilderness, alone and friendless?_

"_But you have been a fine pickpocket up till now, boy."_

_The Circusmaster's voice had changed again; now it was smooth and warm like honey. Erik dared to look up into his eyes._

"_And you have brought us great wealth. __**Great**__ wealth, indeed."_

_This was true; Erik almost bent his head in a nod. _

_Until he realized with a great rush of horror that the Circusmaster was mocking him. He could hear it in the buzzing of his voice. The people in the room had begun to laugh._

"_Yes, you are a valuable boy to have around, aren't you, brave, handsome Erik?"_

_Erik said nothing, did nothing, only stared into those eyes with defiance. He would not bow in shame before this man. He would not cower in fear._

"_I can see you know where this is going," the Circusmaster said, speaking now only to him, and not to amuse the others in the tent. His eyes fastened on the boy's. _

_Erik had to fight to not look away; there was a fierce intensity in the man's eyes that made him feel sick._

"_Yes," he said, with all the hatred he could muster, spitting the words into his dark face. "I know. You're going to leave me behind, just like you did to your wife."_

_There were murmurs of shock from the audience. _

_The Circusmaster, while it was quietly rumored that he had left his ailing wife behind in one of the forests, had always told his followers that she had passed away during the night (and was buried in the dark of early morning). Of course, those closest to him, the few that there were, knew better. And Old Iris, drunk one night and ranting, had told Erik the truth._

_The Circusmaster stood._

_The adults in the tent quickly departed._

_Erik wanted to turn, to flee, but he also wanted to stay. He wanted to fight. He wanted the Circusmaster to fear him, to see his determination and his burning hatred. He would not back down. He was not a child any longer._

_He would not run like a coward from his fate._

_The Circusmaster reached into his pocket, drew out a small, sheathed knife, smiled at Erik._

_Erik, nerves seething with energy, looked around for a weapon. The lamp – or maybe a chair leg – what about that statue –_

_He lunged for the iron horse statue, but the Circusmaster was faster._

_One swipe of the gleaming knife – and a white-hot line of pain etched itself down the side of Erik's arm._

* * *

><p><em>He landed on the ground where the Circusmaster had knocked him down, his head striking the dirt with a puff of dust and pain.<em>

_The Circusmaster rolled up his sleeves and bent down over the boy, propping his elbows on his knees._

_Erik's arm ran with blood, the crimson liquid dripping onto the dirt, but he did not feel it anymore. His head was aching with pain from where the Circusmaster had struck him, and he could hardly breathe. He turned his head slowly. The Circusmaster's eyes met his._

_He fought the urge to vomit._

"_Do you know that before I leave people behind I mark them?" the Circusmaster asked, as if he and Erik would having a pleasant conversation over cups of tea. "I mark them with my knife. Usually, I carve my sign into their arms, but I think I'll make an exception for you."_

_Erik croaked out the worst swear word he knew._

_The Circusmaster considered him for a moment._

"_You're such a handsome boy," he said. "I know just where to mark you."_

* * *

><p>"He cut your face? With his knife?" I was clenching the bench so hard that my fingers ached. "He… how… what a sick, disgusting <em>monster!<em>"

Erik gripped my hand even tighter. "After that night, I never saw him again," he said. "He dragged me out into the woods and left me there. I thought I was dying. My face… it wouldn't stop bleeding."

"But you survived," I said. "How?"

"I managed to make my way back into the town." He paused. "A doctor stitched me up. He let me stay with him for a while, but in the end, he threw me out too. I was eating too much food, wasting too much of his hard-earned money."

His words were bitter. I squeezed his hand, wishing I could comfort him, take the pain away, erase the terrible memories. "And after that, you found yourself in the Amazingly Mad Mercury's Traveling Show?"

"Yes. You know the rest of it."

I tilted my head up and kissed his cheek. "Erik, I'm sorry. I am so very sorry. I wish… I wish I could do something to make you feel better."

"Your kisses always seem to help," Erik said, turning his head towards mine. "You should try that."

* * *

><p>We left the gazebo a while later; Erik had relaxed after his story was told, and from what he had said, I thought he would probably like to spend the rest of the day in his home. Sometimes it was better to retreat and heal, rather than keep going with your wounds burning and your skin hanging half off.<p>

It was easy, in the dark of the secret passageway, to remember the more horrible parts of Erik's story, the parts he had told with a halting, tremulous voice; easy to explain to him that I needed to go to my room because I had forgotten something. Because all I wanted to do was cry for that little boy's losses, cry for his pain and his suffering and his loneliness.

But I did not escape back to my room and weep. I stayed. And this was because I loved him, and it was because I did not want to let him struggle through this alone.

The afternoon passed gently, slowly, reminding me of the long middle days in summer, when the sunlight shone on the grassy lawn as though it would never go down. I made lunch for Erik and I; I wanted to give him a chance to breathe, a chance to let the pain seep out of the reopened old wounds.

Of course, he tried to tell me how to cook – but I handled _that_ rather quickly.

We feasted on hot potato soup and laughed about how Erik had made it for me the first time I had come down to his home; drank tea and ate cookies and joked with each other. I lost track of how many times I refilled our cups, and of how long we talked. When the clock struck seven at night, Erik looked up at me, from the book he was reading aloud, and said,

"It's late, isn't it? We've been in here all day."

I only laughed. "So what? Did we have plans I forgot about?"

Erik stared thoughtfully at me. "No, I think you have plans tomorrow. With Madame Giry."

I got up from the kitchen chair and went over to him. "Yes, that is true. Keep reading, won't you? You make Hamlet sound like a sniveling fool."

"I'm not sure whether to accept that as a compliment, or to throw the book down and berate you for insulting me."

"The former, I'm sure," I said, "but maybe you should play something instead. I haven't heard you play the organ for ages."

Erik got to his feet, looked down at me with those penetrating eyes of his, and smiled. "You haven't been down here lately." He tossed the book onto the sofa.

I gave him a look of incredulity. "Yes, I have! I came down here three times last week, and more the week before. True, this week I was rather busy, but I _am_ working in the Opera-"

But he was laughing. "You are extremely easy to provoke, Irene. Let's go out to the shore. I'll play something for you, since you want me to."

"Fine," I said, trailing after him. "Only because _I_ want you to, is that it? I have to want something before you'll do it? I mean, I thought you _liked_ playing the organ, but apparently I was mistaken…"

* * *

><p>This pleasant little argument continued until Erik cut it off rather abruptly by playing several <em>very<em> loud chords on the organ, and my voice was drowned out.

"Are you done?" he asked me, sitting down. He had leaned over the bench to reach the keys.

I crossed my arms and sat down next to him. "I suppose."

"If you sit there, I won't be able to reach all the notes," he warned me. "Of course, if you sit there, you're easier to reach, so I won't have to cross the room to get to you, but-"

"I'll move," I said, grimacing wryly at him. "Besides, if you get caught up in kissing me, I'll never hear any of your music."

I sat down on a large purple ottoman to his right and pulled my legs up under my skirts. Erik set his hands on the keyboard, closed his eyes for a moment in contemplation, and gently pressed the first notes.

I closed my eyes. I recognized this piece; it was one I had heard from my old room during the first weeks I had been in the Opera House. It had lulled me to sleep one night, after a long and tiring day.

The music filled me up like light and gold and stars; it brushed around me with soft, heavy wings, bearing me up into a world of wondrous colors: red, gold, purple, blue, silver, green. I wrapped my hands in my skirts, opened my ears, and let the music carry me away.

* * *

><p>Later we went into the kitchen and made dinner; or rather, Erik made dinner, because he wouldn't let me do anything besides setting the table.<p>

"You made the entire lunch," he told me, pouring batter into a pan. He was making crepes.

"It was not even hard," I said, folding a napkin. "Cooking is easy. What are you going to put in those?"

"You'll see," Erik said.

He was wearing the black mask today, and I wanted to tell him to take it off, but I did not. It would take time for him to adjust to not wearing it.

"What are you thinking about?" he asked, after a moment of silence.

"Nothing," I said, getting up and going past him to open the fork drawer. "Only hoping you won't burn the crepes."

"I have never burned anything in my entire life," Erik retorted, flipping the crepes over with his spatula.

"Such broad statements you make, my dear."

"Oh, be quiet and sit down."

I shut the drawer, clutching my forks in one hand, and went over to the table to lay them down on the napkins. "I'd rather not, thank you. I'm setting the table. Are we expecting guests?"

"Why do you ask?"

I glanced over at the pan. "You're making one crepe too many."

"Someone tripped the alarm in the corridor next to the lake. I decided to make one extra, just in case the newcomer is someone we trust. Otherwise, you can have it."

"Shouldn't we go find out who it is?" I dropped the last fork on the table and turned towards the door. "What if it's someone like Honoré? Or one of the ballet girls wandering around?"

"I'll go in a minute."

He was making dinner; I was free. I shook my head. "I can go look. I know the back passageways, and I have my map. I'll find out who it is."

"Irene, really, I can go. You should stay here."

Erik turned to face me at the last word, frowning. His green eyes fixed themselves on mine and held them, piercing and unsure.

I shook my head again, and looked around for my bag. Where had I put it? "I'll be fine, Erik. I'll be back in a few minutes, and we'll know who it is."

"Irene, sit down. I'll go."

Something sizzled behind him, then sparked, and a long line of flame raced along one of the crepes, heading inextricably for the wooden counter.

Erik must have seen the horror in my eyes: he turned, cursed, and snatched up a pitcher of cream, the only liquid at hand.

I hurried forward, wanting to pull him away from the fire, afraid for his safety – when a bell rang in the outer room.

It was the shore alarm – someone had crossed the lake and entered Erik's home.


	13. Chapter 13: Phénomènes étranges

_I apologize for such a long gap between posting! I've been sick with a nasty cold, and it is amazing how hard it is to write intelligently while one is sick._

_On a happier note, here is the next chapter!_

_Oh, and thank you all very very much for your reviews! Angelofmusic75, I can't quite put my finger on what's different about this story either, but I think I like it! _

* * *

><p>Erik threw the cream over the fire as the bell rang again; I hurried forward, snatching up a glass of water from the table as I passed.<p>

"It's out," the Phantom said, stepping backwards and nearly colliding with me. "I'll go see who's on the shore. Stay here." He went past me and out of the kitchen.

I put the glass on the counter and looked down at the stove – the burnt crepes were completely drenched in cream; brown-black misshapen lumps under white liquid. Picking up the pan, I poured the mess into the sink, letting the ruined pastries flop limply down after the rush of white.

Then I ripped off my apron and went into the living room to find Erik.

_Stay here? Did he really think I was going to do that?_

* * *

><p>He was standing with his back to me on the shore, unspeaking. I went around a stack of boxes, saw what he was staring at, and came to a sudden halt.<p>

There was a dripping wet person sitting on the ground, wringing water from his pant legs and speaking quickly. I did not recognize him; he was dark-skinned, older, and unfamiliar. A foreigner, most likely.

"I would have thought you'd leave the boat on the opposite side of the lake, since you never use it," the stranger said in an annoyed, distracted tone. "And if you would draw me a map of your passageways, as I've asked you to thousands of times, I wouldn't lose my way down here every year and have to swim across the lake in sheer desperation."

"I'm afraid I've been too busy to draw pictures for you," Erik said. His arms were crossed, but it was clear he knew this man, or the stranger would have been sedated and deposited in the higher levels of the Opera House by now.

I stepped out from behind an armoire and passed through the aisles to stand next to Erik.

"And who might you be?" I inquired, looking down at the drenched man. "Friend or foe?"

"A friend, hopefully," he replied slowly, staring up at me in surprise. His hands fell away from his pant legs. "I'm Nadir. Erik, you didn't tell me you had a guest."

"Actually," I corrected, "I believe _you_ are the guest. Would you like a towel?"

"Thank you, yes," Nadir said.

At the same moment, Erik said, "No, he doesn't. He shouldn't even be here. You're supposed to be in London, Nadir, not in Paris, setting off my alarms and bothering me."

"I'll go get a towel," I said, shooting Erik a disparaging look. _Was he really going to act like this with a guest?_ "By the way, my name's Katelienne Laurent. It's a pleasure to meet you."

* * *

><p>I returned a few moments later, bearing towels and a mug of hot coffee.<p>

Nadir had found a chair to drip on; he was sitting in it, facing Erik, who was scowling oppressively. Neither of them were speaking – I wondered if my arrival had had something to do with that.

"Thank you," Nadir told me, accepting the towels with relief. "Erik, couldn't I borrow some of your clothes? As it was your fault I ended up in the lake?"

"I suppose you can," Erik said. He glanced at me with a flash of green eyes. "I met Nadir when I was in Persia."

I nodded, finally remembering where I had heard the name before. "Right. Well, it's a pleasure to finally meet you, Nadir; I've heard so many good things about you."

Erik scoffed and went away.

* * *

><p>Nadir sipped from the coffee, sighed happily, and looked up at me. He had wrapped the towels around his waist and torso – he resembled a badly designed snowman. "I must say I don't know anything about you, Mademoiselle Katelienne. How did you meet Erik?"<p>

"It's a very long story," I said, sitting down across from him. "Let me summarize. I located my sister's murderer in Paris, where he was acting as the manager of the Palias Garnier. I tracked him down, and with Erik's help, I tried to bring him to justice. Unfortunately, he died, and I acquired another enemy, a man we've nicknamed the Inspector. He's disappeared, so we're free of him for now, thankfully. Right now I'm writing ads for the Opera. And… that's it."

It was clear Nadir was trying to find a suitable way to respond to this barrage of startling information. He blinked at his hands, sat there for a moment, and finally looked up with a smile. "It seems you've been through rather a lot. How… how has Erik been?"

"He's well. Happy, I think. You see, he and I… we're… in love. And," I rushed on, "he's composing, and our friends are doing well. We're happy."

"I see," Nadir said, slowly. He had steepled his fingers together in his lap. "So you met Erik how?"

"That's none of your business, Nadir," said Erik's voice from behind me. "You're prying into things, as usual. Here are some clothes."

He dropped them unceremoniously at Nadir's feet and stalked to my side. I raised my eyebrows.

"I can tell Nadir about how we met, Erik, it's perfectly normal for someone to ask that."

Nadir rose to his feet and shrugged, having picked the clothing up from the ground. "I'll go change."

"You do that," Erik said, rudely. "We'll be in the living room."

* * *

><p>While Nadir was in the bathroom, I gave Erik a piece of my mind.<p>

"From what you told me, Erik, Nadir saved your life! You can't treat him so badly. I won't allow it."

Erik scowled. "Hmph."

"And he seems very nice," I said, sitting down at the table. Erik was busy making another pan of crepes, having mopped up the cream from the floor. I had washed the pan. The kitchen smelled terrible, due to the aroma of burnt crepes and smoke, but otherwise everything was fine, including the wooden counter.

"He seems like that, does he," Erik said inimically. "And I was having such a nice year before he came…"

"Don't even try to say that Nadir has ruined your year," I said. "He's your friend, or so you told me. I can't believe that your opinion of him has changed so drastically in the last few minutes."

Erik dropped the bowl of dough on the counter with a crash.

I gave up.

* * *

><p>Erik's clothes were too big for Nadir; they hung off him awkwardly, but his odd clothing did not render him unimpressive.<p>

"From what Erik told me about you," I said, passing the bowl of melted chocolate to Erik, "you were the chief of police in Persia. And a good one, too. Do you think you could find someone for me?"

Erik took the bowl from me and dumped half of it on his crepes. "Not a good idea, Nadir."

Nadir smiled, finished chewing his bite of crepe, and said, "Who, exactly?"

"The Inspector man I told you about," I said, ignoring Erik, who was glowering in my direction. "He's turned up in Paris. I could give you a description of him."

"That sounds like a wonderful idea," said Madame Giry's voice.

We all turned (except for Erik) to look at the doorway, which had been unoccupied until now.

"Oh, come in, Antoinette," I said, leaping up from the sofa. "We have crepes. Would you like one?"

Nadir looked curiously at the newcomer.

"Next thing you know, the Count will be down here too," Erik grumbled into his food.

Everyone politely ignored him.

* * *

><p>After I introduced Antoinette to Nadir (and they greeted each other courteously), we all sat back down again. Madame Giry waved off my offer of crepes – she had already eaten.<p>

"I came down here with some important news, both bad and good," she told us. "The first thing is, Honoré and the Count parted on very disagreeable terms this morning after arguing about the ball. I'm not sure if Honoré will be attending. Of course, that does not matter as long as he continues to fund the Opera, but it will look bad if he neglects to show."

Nadir leaned forward, intrigued. "Is this Honoré the current patron? Why is he so upset?"

"Because he's a spoiled, petulant child," I said. "He had better show; otherwise we _will_ look bad, Francis especially. Besides, isn't his family coming?"

Erik looked intrigued at this new development; his eyebrows rose. He was obviously thinking of a plan to force Honoré into attending. I glanced sideways at him. He smiled wickedly back.

Madame Giry shook her head in response to my question, which I had forgotten. "I doubt it. He's the black sheep of the Auger family; acting as a patron for the Opera is something he's done against their express wishes. You do know the connotations associated with opera, don't you?"

I did, but I considered myself above them. "Yes. But you know I care nothing for prejudices. Was that your bad news?"

"Well, no." Antoinette put down her cup of tea on the table, and brought her hands together, a motion I had come to associate with a steeling of the nerves. I stiffened in unhappy anticipation; Erik put down his cup. "There's more."

She paused to draw a breath, and at that moment, Nadir slipped completely off his chair and collapsed on the floor.

* * *

><p>Erik moved faster than I would have believed possible – one moment he was sitting next to me, and the next, he was on the ground next to Nadir, propping the man's head up and feeling for a pulse in his neck.<p>

Antoinette fell to her knees next to him, her hands flying to her chest.

"Erik, what is wrong with him? What is it?"

"What can I do?" I asked, frantic, having staggered to my feet.

"Go get the black bag from my room – left cabinet next to the door, third drawer," was Erik's curt reply, his lips barely moving.

I turned and ran.

* * *

><p>When I returned, Erik and Madame Giry had gotten Nadir into the kitchen, where he was propped up over the sink. He was awake and breathing, but his face was so pale that his dark skin resembled coffee with a heavy dash of cream. He blinked at me with dilated eyes. I could only stare back in distraught horror.<p>

"Antoinette, go out," Erik ordered. "Katelienne, get out the tube of copper sulfate. It's in the bottom of the bag, in a black box."

Madame Giry was standing next to the counter, eyes wide, apparently oblivious to Erik's command. Ignoring this, I dumped the bag out on the floor with a clatter and knelt to find the black box.

The box was under a mess of syringes; I pried the lid off, picked the tube out with a trembling hand and stood to hand it to Erik. "He's been poisoned?"

"Yes. Go away, both of you," Erik said, uncapping the tube of powder. "I don't need your help, and this is going to be ugly."

* * *

><p>Antoinette followed me out of the room. I shut the door behind us.<p>

"Is this a bad time?" asked Francis, who was standing in the middle of the living room, holding my map.

* * *

><p>Madame Giry said, "Yes, it is. What are you doing here?"<p>

"Where did you get that?" I said.

The Count stared at both of us for a moment. "I found the map on the floor in the passageway under the roof. You must have dropped it, so I followed the passageways here to give it back to you. What's going on?"

I took the map from him and sank into the nearest chair. "Antoinette can explain."

"No, I most certainly cannot," Madame Giry said. She strode towards the door. "I'm going upstairs; rehearsals are supposed to start in fifteen minutes. Irene, as soon as you know if Nadir is going to be alright, come tell me."

"I will," I said, rather numbly. "Francis, go away."

Erik was beginning to rub off on me.

The Count shrugged and followed Madame Giry from the room.

* * *

><p>A few hours passed, during which Nadir's life was saved, via Erik's ministrations; and he was deposited in one of the guest rooms to recuperate.<p>

"He will be alright, won't he?" I asked as Erik came into the living room.

Erik nodded and sat down across from me. His eyes were dark and worried, his hair was standing up in odd tufts all around his head, and he was paler than normal.

"He was poisoned," he said.

"A fourth case of poisoning in two months," I said, paraphrasing the newspaper headline Madame Giry had shown us. "He did not come to the masquerade, so I suppose we'll have to rule that coincidence out. Did he tell you what he had eaten?"

Erik shook his head. "He weakly accused me of putting something in his food. I suppose he was trying to make a joke."

I tucked my cold hands under my arms. "We'll have to question him later."

"It seems every time we lose an enemy, we gain another," Erik said, rubbing a hand over his face. "Garmin, the Inspector, the Blackmailer… and now, the Poisoner, I suppose. God knows why these things happen."

"Because people are fundamentally evil," I said. "We'll have to start taking precautions with our food and drink. Erik, you look exhausted. Why don't you go to bed? We can finish this conversation in the morning."

The Phantom yawned. "I suppose." He lurched out of the chair, caught his foot on one of the table legs, and had to hop to avoid falling over.

I bit back a laugh and got up. "I'll walk you to your room. And then I'm going back upstairs. I need to go tell Antoinette that Nadir's okay."

"Kiss me?" Erik asked hopefully.

I couldn't decline.

* * *

><p>On the way to his room, Erik decided that he wasn't that tired and that his time would be better spent disrupting rehearsals. I suspected that this was because he wanted to bother Honoré (he did not like the new patron at all) but I did not argue with him about it. Instead, we both made our way up into the auditorium's rafters; me, to wait for Madame Giry to finish rehearsals, and Erik, to throw things and wreak havoc.<p>

Luckily for the Phantom, the entire company was onstage: they seemed to be practicing the final scene of __Les élémens__, and the air was filled with the sound of music and the glitter of a hundred brilliant costumes.

Erik left my side almost immediately – he was searching for something to drop onto the performers – and I sat down on the rafter, a hundred feet in the air, to watch the practice and to find people I knew.

I could barely glimpse Madame Giry in the wings; she appeared to be lecturing one of her dancers. Her back was to me. The head stagehand was loitering in the rafter across from me, looking down at the stage, twirling a pencil in his hand, apparently bored. And to my left – there was suddenly movement.

Getting to my feet was no easy task on a wooden beam littered with old ropes and sharp equipment, but I darted away into the darkness before the person who had been watching me could reach me.

My pursuer appeared to be one of the younger stagehands; his hair was a light gold, his face unlined, but the eyes that swept the shadows in search of me were hard and cold. I tried not to move from my place behind a large beam; surely his eyes were adjusted to the darkness, surely he would see me even if I was completely obscured in shadow…

"Landon! What are you doing away from your post?" barked Monsieur Hunter, unknowingly rescuing me. "Get to work!"

Landon scowled, swept his eyes once more over my hiding place, and turned slowly away.

I breathed a sigh of relief.

Erik dropped down next to me without even a noise. "What is going on?" he murmured, dangerously. "What is that stagehand doing over here?"

"I think he might have seen me," I said, reaching for his hand. "I think it's the same person who almost saw us last time."

"I hate stagehands," Erik growled. "Completely useless, all of them. They can't even keep unwelcome visitors out."

I raised my eyebrows at this – wasn't it Erik's own cunning that disallowed them from seeing him?

Erik, catching my expression, grinned. "I know it's my fault. And I like it. I found a set piece that's hanging rather low – don't you want to watch me drop it onto that soprano?"

"Only joking, only joking," he said hastily as I glared at him. "If you'd just give me back my paint, though, I could use that instead."

With help from Antoinette, I had confiscated his paint buckets after the incident with Jeannette.

I smirked. "You'll have to ask Madame Giry. _I_ don't know where she put them. Oh, look, Jeanette's going to sing!"

"And Honoré has finally decided to grace us with his presence," Erik said, glancing down in an entirely different direction. "He seems rather put-out, don't you think?"

I looked down at the aisle. It was true; the Count, who had just entered the auditorium, was being stalked by an angry man with an expertly tied blue cravat and fair hair. He appeared to be waving his arms in the air; even I could hear what he was saying.

"I will not have it! Doesn't my money count for something? I must have _some_ say in how this Opera is run!"

"How the Opera is run is none of your concern," Francis said, quietly and without rancor. "I am the manager of the Opera, Monsieur Auger, not you."

"I _insist _upon inviting whomever I please to the ball!" Honoré shouted. "The Dubois family is well-known and highly regarded! They will be a welcome addition! Listen to sense, man-" and now he was only inches away from the Count "- allow me to invite them!"

Suddenly, I knew what was going to happen, and my heart leaped.

The Count spun around, drew back his fist, and hit Honoré squarely in the nose.

There was a chorus of startled gasps from the stage; the performers had stopped their rehearsal when Honoré had started to shout.

Next to me, Erik started to laugh softly.

Honoré picked himself up off the floor, his nose streaming blood, and stared at the Count.

"They're going to have a fight," I said breathlessly. "We can't have that. Erik, come on, let's go do something."

He only shushed me. "No, no, listen."

There was a long pause, during which the two men below said nothing, only looked at each other. I wondered who would break the silence first.

This was answered rather quickly.

"I guess I deserved that," Honoré said, his voice muffled with blood so that the words came out garbled and mushy. "I apolobgize."

"Apology accepted," the Count replied. "No Dubois family. Is that clear?"

"Very clear." Honoré wiped his nose on his sleeve, snuffled some, and turned to leave the auditorium. "I'll go get cleaned up."

"You do that," Francis agreed.

* * *

><p>As Francis went up the stairs to the stage, the performers broke out into spontaneous applause. I, of course, joined in. Erik, overcome with spasms of laughter, also obliged.<p>

And so the evening ended on a high note.


	14. Chapter 14: Les Listes de Règles

_Umm... where are you, readers? I'm getting a little nervous here..._

* * *

><p>The next morning, we held a council of war.<p>

We met in my room. Madame Giry sat on the window seat. Nadir, wrapped in a blanket and drinking a cup of tea, sat unsteadily on one of my chairs; Erik lounged dramatically across the entire sofa, and the Count stood off to one side, staring out one of the windows and looking rather pleased with himself.

I knew why, of course. He was still gloating about his victory over Honoré.

"Today we are gathered to welcome – and dissuade – yet another enemy," I read (from my notes), perched on the arm of the sofa next to Erik's feet. "Namely, the Poisoner, as dubbed by the Phantom and acknowledged by the S.C.O.W.L. as a whole, wherefore we shall-"

"Hold it, stop there," Antoinette interjected, apparently tiring already of my lovely prose. "Who – or what – is S.C.O.W.L.?"

"The Sneaky Conglomeration of Opera Workers' Leaders (United against Evil People)," I said. "Now, may I continue? And, on a side note, don't call it S.C.O.W.L.U.E.P. That sounds bad."

"Since when are you an Opera Leader?" said the Count, turning away from the window to eye me.

I sighed. "If Erik gets to be one" – Erik smirked – "than _I_ get to be one. Besides, I'm including Nadir in our group, and he's not even part of the Opera House staff."

Nadir, acknowledging this with a nod, put his cup of tea down on the table next to him. I noticed (along with everyone else) that his hand was shaking. "So what does S.C.O.W.L. get to do? And why are we here?"

"For one," Erik said, "we're here to find out who poisoned you. For another, we need to fill in each other on what's been happening around the Opera House lately. Does everyone know about the Blackmailer?"

Everyone nodded.

Antoinette stretched, yawned, and said, "But does everyone know about those articles I showed Erik and Irene?"

Everyone nodded again.

"I suppose that everyone's up to date, then," I said, feeling pleased. "Now we're going to make a list of important things."

"I have one."

"Well, what is it?" Erik demanded, when Francis did not continue.

"Oh, sorry. I was just watching that bird out there. Back to my point. Tonight, as you know, it is the winter ball."

"And?" I prompted, hoping he wasn't going to say something like:

"_So we must prepare for a massive line of people asking Katelienne about being a published author or if she's married yet and why she's not living with the previous manager who she was engaged to and if this is because she has her eye on the Count instead and if she feels badly about being one of the most immoral people in Paris."_

In real life, the Count responded: "And so we need to write that down, don't we? I mean, it _is_ rather important. People are going to be coming from everywhere, and we need to make sure nothing – er, secretive – is disclosed. Besides, I wanted to ask some of you to pose in the paintings."

_Oh. He was talking about the human portraits._ I had forgotten about that.

Antoinette cleared her throat. "What sort of paintings do you plan to use?"

"I have a list, actually," Francis said, taking it out of his pocket. "First of all, however, I want to explain where the posings – for lack of a better word – will be. I've established three areas for certain; I need some ideas for the rest. There's going to be six paintings on display."

Erik got up off the sofa and loomed over the Count, who went back a few feet and ran into the wall.

"Erik, what are you doing?" I said, completely flummoxed. "Let Francis finish."

"I'm trying to figure out where that peculiar _smell_ is coming from," the Phantom said, sniffing hard. Francis pressed himself into the wall, flapping his hands uselessly. Erik continued to sniff. "It smells like… like… like… the _impending_ _loss of certain places that I frequent! _Where are you putting these stupid posing people?"

"Do sit down, Erik," Antoinette said, "or Francis will have a stroke. Nadir, don't strain yourself by laughing. You'll bring on another attack."

Nadir coughed, hastily swallowed some tea, and began to choke. Madame Giry leapt up to assist him.

Erik loomed for a few more seconds, then went back to the sofa with a grunt.

* * *

><p>The Count fumbled for his list.<p>

I took a deep breath to calm my temper. "Francis, can you please explain where you are going to have the paintings?"

Francis also took a deep breath, glanced nervously at Erik, and said, "The first one will be on the stage. It's called _St. Sebastian Aided by St. Irene_, and it was painted by Trophime Bigot. I'm sure you've all heard of him."

I had not, but I saw no need to make this information public, as Erik, Nadir (who had recovered from his coughing fit), and Antoinette were all nodding in recognition. "The next one?"

"In the ballroom. It's called _The Finding of Moses_, by Sébastien Bourdon; he's rather less well-known than Bigot, but his paintings are good ones, and-"

Erik was impatiently nodding, so I thought it best to urge the Count to continue. "And the next one?"

"Er, um, well… I thought I'd host that painting in the garden on the roof."

Antoinette looked up. "That sounds like a splendid idea. In the gazebo?"

Francis shook his head up and down. "Yes. Of course, if there's any objections…"

"Not with me," I said, scribbling down the names of the paintings and where they would be held. "Erik? Nadir?"

"I don't care," Nadir croaked. "It's not like I'll be attending."

"Yes, that's true. I should have remembered that." I glanced over at the dark-haired man sprawled across the sofa. "Erik – your opinion, please."

"I don't care either," he said. This caused a number of raised eyebrows around the room.

I caught Madame Giry's eye and mouthed: _What on earth?_

She only shrugged. It was clear she didn't know what was going on either.

Erik sat up, oblivious, and looked at us. "Is that all?"

I picked up my notepad. "No. Onto the list of important things." Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the Count sigh.

* * *

><p>By the end of the council of war, the members of S.C.O.W.L. had compiled three lists: one, of important people; another, of what to do and what not to do at the Winter Ball; and a third one, of various events that may or may not have been connected.<p>

I read the Winter Ball list aloud, to clarify.

"We may not…

_1. Eat or drink anything suspicious, such as something handed to us by another person, or something that appears to be tampered with. (If you are Irene, you may not speak to anyone who knows your old name. Something like this happening in public could be bad for your health, especially since there is a Blackmailer following you around.) (If you are the Phantom, or Erik, or whatever weird name you've come up with, you may not appear and frighten the guests away. You may not tamper with the food. You may not do anything – anything at all – to sway people from returning to the Opera House.) _

_2. We may not get drunk. (Thank you, Madame Giry, for such a helpful tip. I can't imagine why I would ever stoop to such a level.) _

_3. Disappear into shadowy corners to kiss your lover, because we are supposing to be mingling with guests. (Thank you, Francis. I would wipe that smirk off your face before Erik strangles you. And this rule applies to you and Jeannette as well. See? Harsh.) _

"We may, however…

_1. Converse._

_2. Wear masks._

_3. Mouth "Help me" to S.C.O.W.L. members from across the room, especially if one is saddled with Honoré for most of the night._

_4. Eat food that we have brought (or made) ourselves._

_5. Pose, if you want to._

_6. Leave when it nears one or two in the morning._

_7. Rescue various friends from annoying people by asking them to dance._ _(And yes, Erik, you may come to the ball __as long as__ you don't hurt anyone or drop things on people's heads. You may even ask me to dance.)_

_8. Have fun._ _Keep an eye out for strange people, such as __anyone that even remotely resembles the Inspector,__ that weird ex-patroness, a possible __Blackmailer__, and anyone who seems to be slipping things into people's drinks."_

"But what if someone recognizes you, Irene?" Antoinette asked, for the fourth time, and probably not for the last. "I mean, sometimes not even Erik can swoop down and save you. Furthermore, you know Andre Roquefort will be there – I wouldn't doubt he'd invite some of his old friends."

"I honestly cannot predict _everything_, Antoinette," I said, putting the list down and crossing my arms. "But usually I can worm my way out of sticky situations – excuse me for mixing my metaphors. Anyway, even if someone does recognize me, although I will be wearing a mask, and everyone will be calling me Katelienne; despite these things, if someone does, I'll simply tell them they're mistaken. And if I can't do that – well, I don't know what I'll do."

Erik growled: "I'll be near Irene all night. If anyone starts bothering her, I'll handle them."

I knew he was probably referring to _men_ bothering me, and for a moment I imagined Erik face-to-face (or rather, shoulder-to-face) with a little old white-haired woman. How would he, ahem, "handle" her? I doubted the Phantom would be able to squash his protective instincts towards the elderly (and especially an elderly _woman_) to push her forcibly away from me.

Madame Giry chose not to pursue this avenue of attack, although I knew she had seen it, if I had, and she leaned back against the window. "Well, you're right, Irene. It will depend on the situation. And of course, if someone does recognize you, I suppose we can rush in and confuse them so badly that you can slip away."

"But what if she can't?" Francis said, making me want to pull my hair out in exasperation. "I mean, we can't predict everything, like she said, so what are we going to do if she's-"

Nadir chose this moment to burst into another loud coughing fit (something I suspected was planned in order to avoid a repeat of the previous conversation) and Erik got to his feet and crossed the room to pound on his back.

Over the horrible hacking noises, he said, "I believe this meeting is over. Goodbye, Francis. Goodbye, Madame Giry."

"But wait!" Francis cried. "What about where I should hold the other posings?"

"What about it?" Erik said, with a derisive curl of his lip. This was rather cruel of him, so I intervened.

"What about the old ballroom on the second floor?"

Madame Giry looked over at me. "How do you know about that?"

I shrugged. "I stumbled into it a few weeks ago. But never mind about that; do you think it will work?"

"I thought the upper ballroom was boarded up because of floor damage," the Count said. "At least, that's what Luke thought. But we all know how stupid _he_ was, so perhaps I shouldn't have relied on his perceptions."

Erik raised his eyebrows. "Yes. Enough. You and Madame Giry should go look at the ballroom and determine if it's safe for the posing. Have a nice morning."

"But I still need more _places_," Francis interrupted. "Please, don't any of you know any other places I can host these paintings?"

Antoinette raised a finger. "I do. I've just thought of one. What about one of the boxes? And you can hold the last one in the Salon du Glacier on the first floor. It's big enough, isn't it?"

The Count thought for a moment. "That's perfect! Yes, that's what I'll do."

He took out his piece of paper, went over to my desk, and began writing.

Madame Giry smiled in triumph.

I realized Nadir was drifting off in his chair – his head was drooping lower every second – and I looked at Erik with a question in my eyes. _Shouldn't we get him back to your house?_

Erik nodded. "Count," he said, warningly, "I have things to do."

Francis stuffed the paper into his pocket, dropped my pen on my desk, and turned to Madame Giry. "Shall we be off, then?"

They left after a chorus of hasty goodbyes, made hastier by Erik's scowl.

* * *

><p>Later, when Erik and I had settled Nadir in his room, we went into the living room to talk.<p>

Erik's living room was beautiful: everything fit together, although not all of it matched – the chairs were made from different grains of wood, ranging from dark to tan to pale. The rugs were haphazardly thrown on the stone floor, but the softness of their fibers belied their rough appearance. The main colors for the room were dark red, pale cream, deep brown, and an odd mix of teal and green that I couldn't quite put my finger on.

All in all, it was a comfortable room, warm, homey, attractive. Altogether, a fine place to spend a cold afternoon.

The fire crackled pleasantly in the hearth. I picked up a blanket from one of the many chairs and sat down in front of the fireplace, wrapping it around my shoulders. I reached back to pull the pins out of my hair: they were poking into my scalp again.

The Phantom picked up a letter from his desk, threw it down again, and came to stand next to me, looking down into the flames.

"I received another letter from the Blackmailer," I said.

"Is that so?"

I pushed some hair out of my eyes. "Yes, I passed by my old room after breakfast and found it. It must be said, unfortunately, that I lost my temper and dropped it in the fire after reading it. So we can't compare it to the others."

Erik crouched down, turning his head to look at me. "Well, if it's anything like the last ones, I doubt we'd decipher any new information from it."

"Yes, that's what I thought. Er, hmmm… Erik -" I hesitated, feeling unsure.

"What is it?" He reached out to touch the side of my face, his gentle fingers tracing the line of my cheek.

I pushed at his hand, fighting back an irrational laugh. "That tickles. I was going to say, would you like the ring back? The ring you gave me to pretend I was engaged – albeit horribly – to Luke?"

"Do you have it?" He dropped his hand to his side.

"I have it with me," I said, reaching into my pocket. "Here it is. Would you like it?"

I had taken out a small blue box; I flipped it open to reveal the sparkling diamonds set into the gleaming metal of the ring. Erik looked at it warily, as though it was a venomous snake about to strike him.

Noting this, I closed the lid. "I was only wondering, of course. I mean, you don't have to take it if you'd rather -"

"Give it here."

"What?" His answer had been abrupt, curt.

"I'll take it. Give it to me, Irene. Please."

I handed it over.

Erik rose to his feet and went out of the room.

* * *

><p>For a moment I wondered if he was going to do something drastic. I didn't know what, of course, but whenever I considered the effect of Christine upon Erik, I assumed that Erik's emotions went a little haywire. More than a little, actually. This disturbed me.<p>

But then I heard returning footsteps in the hallway, and I relaxed.

Erik stuck his head into the room, green eyes questioning. "Are you coming?"

"What are you doing?" I asked, rising to my feet, the blanket sliding off my shoulders to the polished marble. "I thought you didn't want company."

"No." He waited for me to reach him before he spoke again. "I'm sorry. I… Christine… When I think of her, it's as though I lose my head."

"Don't think of her, then," I said, reaching for his hand. "You needn't do so anymore, Erik."

"I know."

We went down the hallway together; Erik stopped partway to check on Nadir, pushing open the door without a sound. He glanced in, stopped for a moment, then drew the door shut.

"He's asleep," he mouthed at me. I nodded.

* * *

><p>We ended up on the shore.<p>

Erik flicked the box open with a twist of his wrist; the ring sat glittering in the black velvet.

I waited, wondering. He pulled the ring out, looked at me, and threw it into the air.

It arced high over the lake, flipping over and over, gleaming in the candlelight.

When it hit the water, it sank without more than a tiny splash.

Erik shrugged, and threw the box after it too with a snap of his arm.

* * *

><p>Well, he tried to, but I lunged forward and snatched it from him.<p>

"I like this box!" I said, when I had it firmly in my grasp. "Don't throw it in that stinky lake of yours."

The Phantom arched a black brow. "My apologies."

He stepped closer to me, reached out a hand to take mine. "I suppose…"

He paused, his brown face pensive, then spoke again. "I'm... free of her now."

"Well," I said, "I think that calls for some celebration."

I was about to reach up and kiss him when he spoke, his eyes darkening. He looked almost... sad.

"Irene… are you free? Of the people haunting you?"

I stiffened, thinking of Claire, Luke, Cooper, the Inspector... "Why are you asking me that?"

He said nothing. It was his silence, always, that drove me into speech.

And I wanted to step away, but he was holding my hand; he felt me tense, and tightened his grip. "You must know by now that when I start something, I have to finish it," I blurted.

"You won't be able to catch him alone, Irene."

This was the time to ask, then. _Could he leave the Opera with me to search for the Inspector? Would he be able to?_

"I'll need your help, Erik. Can you... help me?"

I hadn't been able to get the words out, but I could see in his eyes that he knew what I meant; and I knew he was weighing my words, carefully searching through them for his answer.

Erik put his hand on my shoulder, drew me towards him.

"Always," he said, "always."

His reply sounded like a prayer, or an oath.

It sounded, faintly, like hope.


	15. Chapter 15: Le Début

_Thank you thank you thank you thank you thank you for all of your lovely reassuring reviews! I have no idea what I would do without you all. And I hope this chapter answers some of your questions..._

* * *

><p>Nadir, wrapped in blankets and sitting in Erik's largest chair, looked at me with dark, interested eyes. "What have I missed?"<p>

I sat down across from him on the couch, about to speak, but Erik answered for me from his position against the wall. "Nothing, except people babbling on and on about the blasted winter ball. I, as you can see, am _delighted_ at this newfangled idea of throwing yet _another_ party. I mean, the last ball was so wonderful; why not have another?"

Nadir blinked. "What did you do to it?"

"Nothing, surprisingly," I said, sending Erik a Look. "Just ignore him. Actually, you haven't missed anything. Nothing important, that is."

"So why are you both staring at me?" Nadir said, leaning his head back against the chair and looking at us from under lowered eyelids.

Erik and I glanced at each other.

"_You_ ask him," I said. "You're his friend."

The Phantom scowled. "Fine. But I'll get you back later." He looked down at Nadir with narrowed green eyes. "Why are you here? The _real_ reason, please. You haven't come to see me for years."

The Persian looked slightly uncomfortable; he fidgeted with his blankets and looked away. "Well, Erik… It was only that I kept reading about the Opera House in the news. Er, rather, about Mademoiselle Katelienne, to be exact. Something about engagements and novels and the Opera Ghost. So I decided to come… to come… check it out."

"Hmm," said Erik. This was a bad sign.

"I suppose you didn't expect to find _this_," I said, curious. "I mean, what were you expecting? A dead novelist, her neck wrung by the cold hands of the Opera Ghost? Or perhaps you thought you'd find me happily married to Luke Garmin, flushed with matrimony and keen on writing yet another soul-baring novel on the Phantom."

I was jesting, of course. Nadir, having glanced at Erik's irate and twitching face, compressed his lips together and did not answer right away. "Not… no… not exactly."

"Spit it out, Nadir," Erik said in a growly tone completely adverse to replies.

"I thought you'd be in need of a friend," Nadir said, carefully, to his friend. "I thought you'd be holed up in this dark gloomy lake house of yours" – and now he seemed to be warming up for something – "sulking and grouching and moaning, and I thought you'd want some company! Of course, since you've treated me like a nasty old piece of moldy cheese ever since I've arrived, it's clear you're happy by _yourself_. Now I regret coming _at all_."

He had hunched his shoulders and wrinkled his face into a rather imposing dark frown. I fought back a gurgle of unhelpful laughter and waited for Erik's response.

"What about saving your life?"

"Commonplace," Nadir said, frowning even more distinctly. "Old. Boring. Happened before."

"What about letting you in?" Erik said.

"You _always _let me in. And I still had to swim across the lake."

"What about – what about" – Erik was fishing madly here – "feeding you dinner? Introducing you to Katelienne? Giving you a guest room?"

"I introduced myself," I put in. Erik glared at me.

Nadir sniffed. "Quite. And all of those things are things you would do for a perfect stranger. Boring, routine, cold, heartless things."

"What the he-" – Erik quickly amended his statement after I coughed loudly – "heck do you want then? For heaven's sake, man, I've done practically everything! Do you want a bloody _hug_ or something?"

"No," said Nadir, crossing his arms, "I want you to go away. I'll talk to Katelienne. She is much too nice to love someone like you. Cold and heartless does not even sum up your personality."

Erik growled wordlessly and stomped out of the room.

Nadir settled back into his chair, took a sip of tea, and smiled pleasantly at me. "It's nice to be back."

I blinked. _I think I like this man._

* * *

><p>An hour or so later, Erik returned, bearing paper and pen, which he set on his desk. "We need to discuss your poisoning," he informed his ex-friend, speaking to the desk.<p>

"Discuss away," Nadir said airily, waving his hand. "Irene has just finished telling me all about herself."

Erik scowled.

I smiled. "Oh, never mind that, Erik. Go ahead, dear. What do you want to ask him?"

"Where did you eat the day you arrived at my house?" Erik asked the wall.

Nadir raised his eyebrows. "Why, at a small café across town. It's called… I believe… it's called La Coquille. It was delicious. I had fresh trout and a basket of frites. There were rather a lot of people around, so someone could have slipped something in my food – or in my wine glass – without me noticing. The question is-"

"Why?" Erik and I said together. We glanced at each other. Erik half-smiled.

"Yes," Nadir agreed. "Why me? I am not the most important person around here. I am also a foreigner. No one would even care if I was dead (as far as the poisoner knew) so clearly publicity was not their plan."

"The type of poison administered was an odd mix of Paris Green and thallium," Erik said. "It seems that our Poisoner may be experimenting." He held up the papers - newspaper clippings, actually - that he had brought into the room. "From what Madame Giry gave us, it is impossible to tell exactly what the other victims died of, so we will simply have to conjecture that the Poisoner has been experimenting all along."

"You think he or she is waiting for the right person," I said. "You think the Poisoner has a distinct victim in mind, and that they are waiting for the perfect moment to strike."

Erik nodded. "And if Madame Giry is correct about the proximity of the victims to the Opera House - that the victim may reside _here_, what better time to strike than at a crowded, hectic winter ball? We will have to be careful tonight."

We all fell silent after this, each of us deep in thought.

Who would be poisoned tonight?

* * *

><p>The winter ball, however potentially life-threatening, was a grand affair.<p>

I stood on the balcony above the foyer, watching with awe as people streamed into the Opera House: beautiful, mysterious, eye-catching, bizarre by turns in their costumes.

The Theme, as previously stated, was Art.

And the rules for employees of the Opera were as follows:

* * *

><p><em>You must wear a costume.<em>

_You must wear a mask._

_If you would like to pose, a costume will be provided for you. However, you must arrive two hours early (7 p.m.) and report to the 1__st__ and 2__nd__ Dressing Rooms in order to do so. Places in the paintings are not promised._

_Art is the Theme; therefore artists, musicians, authors, figures in paintings, famous characters from novels, etc., are what you should aspire to be. You may also dress as a mythological creature or an idea (such as Lady Justice, Honor, Death). You may wear your normal clothing if you are already an artist, but it is suggested that you "spiff up" your outfit. Props (nonlethal) are permitted._

_Drunkenness is not permitted. If you are drunk, you will be escorted from the ball._

_Respect the guests._

_Do not disturb the posings._

_The ball will end at 2 in the morning._

_Enjoy yourself!_

* * *

><p>The rules, presumably written by the Count, had been posted on every door in the Opera House at six that evening. Needless to say, some people were annoyed.<p>

I, however, liked the rules. I did not want to witness drunken harpies chasing people around the room, nor hear the disdainful sniffs of guests as they watched the Opera employees misbehave. I had had enough of that last time.

"Gawking at guests?" asked a smooth voice from behind me.

"It's not as though you aren't," I said, reaching behind me to find his hand. "What are you wearing? I haven't seen you yet."

Erik took my hand and came to stand next to me. I glanced up, caught sight of his familiar emerald eyes, his dark eyebrows, his mocking mouth, and swept my gaze down over his costume.

"What are you? A tragic poet?"

"Just because I'm wearing all black does not mean I'm a poet," Erik retorted, tugging at his unfamiliar black domino mask. "Haven't you noticed what I'm holding?"

I looked down. "A lute? What, you're some sort of musician?"

"And a fine one, too," he said, tightening his grip on my hand to pull me closer to him. "I see you're a dancer. Odd, that is. Seeing as you can't dance."

I punched him in the arm, but gently. "I can waltz, thank _you_, so at least I can dance a little. Besides, this _is_ a costume ball. I'm in costume."

Erik shrugged. "Have you seen anyone we know yet?"

"Nobody except for Opera workers," I said. "So no. Antoinette hasn't arrived yet, from what I've seen, and the Count and Jeanette seem to have vanished completely. I remember the Count telling me that Jeanette and he are going as a sort of duo (with their costume, you know), so I'm highly interested in seeing what they're wearing."

Erik leaned over the railing, propping his elbows on the gold banister, and took a pair of opera glasses out of his pocket. He looked through them for a moment, seemingly considering something. Then he dropped them into his pocket. "I see something intriguing down there. If you'll excuse me…"

I caught his arm as he tried to slide past me and down the stairs. "No, no, where are you going? Who'd you see? Give me those!"

"Yelling again, are we?" Erik said with a flash of white teeth, trying to pull out of my two-handed grip without hurting me. "How rude. There are people watching, did you notice?"

I only tightened my grip on his arm. "Who did you see? And don't tell me that; I don't care and you know it. My reputation is already shot to pieces as it is."

The Phantom leaned down, very close to me; I could feel his hot breath on my face. His green eyes snapped becomingly. "I believe it's one of our old friends. Don't try to follow me, Irene, this is something I'd rather handle on my own."

And with that, he stepped on my foot, tugged his arm away, and slipped away down the stairs. I saw him draw something sharp and shiny out of his vest as he vanished into the darkness below.

I dashed to the banister and looked down, trying to spot the "old friend" in the crowd, but there were only bobbing heads and flashes of colorful costumes in the crush of people below. I could not make out any definite features of anyone's face, let alone someone who resembled one of our enemies.

So this left me only a few options. One, stand here for the next few minutes and wonder. Two, go after Erik and determine who it was for myself (although he had told me not to). And three, stick to tonight's plan and go to the posings as I had told S.C.O.W.L. I would.

I picked up my skirts and headed towards the stairs. Who cared about our plans? Who cared what Erik had said? He could be in danger, and I was the only one who knew. I was going after him.

* * *

><p>I made my way down the stairs, around the corner, and into the ballroom.<p>

Glancing across the room produced no Erik and no evil-looking guests, although that could just be because everyone was wearing masks and spinning around in circles to the music. I focused on one bald fat man in the left corner, who was sipping punch and staring pathetically at a woman dressed as a risqué Liberty, but I doubted that the Inspector would shave his head. It was too… too… weird for someone like him, someone who was so fixated on proper appearance.

Because I was distracted, I did not notice someone sidling up beside me until it was too late.

Honoré snatched a glass of wine off a tray and pushed it into my hand. "Have a drink, Mademoiselle," he said, grinning at me. "What are you, a ballet girl?"

"A ballerina," I said, handing the wine back to him. "And thank you, but I'm not thirsty. Have you seen Madame Giry?"

He was dressed completely in red; I wondered if he was imitating a glass of wine or something. He lacked a mask, but despite this blatant rule-breaking, there were still female heads turning to look at him, apparently enamored with his Grecian profile.

Honoré considered this (not the women – my answer), then grinned again. "No. Would you like to dance?"

I sought frantically for an excuse. _How come I never have one when I need it? __Argh._ "No, I'm not much of a dancer. And if you'll excuse me, I've got to find Madame Giry. I… I need to talk to her."

The patron seemed to take this as an invitation. He looped his arm through mine as I made to turn away.

This caused me an awkward moment in which I tried to free myself of him without causing a scene.

But he had a good grip, and I was not keen on alerting anyone to my presence, so I desisted and allowed him to keep hold of my arm. Honoré smiled brightly. "Shall we?"

We left the ballroom together. I prayed that the Phantom would magically appear and engage Honoré in an impromptu swordfight, but this did not occur. It seemed that I would have to get rid of the nosy patron myself.

* * *

><p>Inwardly, I was seething, and trying to figure out a way to shake Honoré off that did not involve complicated planning or odd maneuverings. Honoré still knew nothing of the Phantom (besides the fanciful, false tales of the Opera Ghost) or his connection to me, so I did not want to lead him into a secret passageway and leave him there. He might inadvertently push a lever and drop into a trap (not that this wasn't a delightful image). Furthermore, he was the current patron, so I couldn't detach myself from him without the proper etiquette.<p>

As we turned a corner, heading away from the auditorium, the ballroom, and the noise of the partiers, I thought of a possible solution. The only problem was that it lacked etiquette, but I had decided to hang etiquette. Who cared about polite sayings when Erik was interrogating an old friend without me?

Luckily, Honoré had let go of my arm.

He was jabbering away about the glamour of Opera life; I cut him off. "Monsieur Auger, would you look at _that_?"

This was the oldest trick in the book, and I did not expect him to fall for it. In fact, all I wanted him to do was look away. I was pointing towards a dark window; Honoré glanced away from me, eyes wide.

As soon as he was looking in the completely opposite direction, I turned and slipped under the Liberty tapestry.

Honore turned back around, but not before I had vanished. He stared wildly (and fruitlessly) around.

"Mademoiselle? Mademoiselle Laurent? Katelienne? Katelienne? Where are you?"

I ignored his whiny questions and simply waited for him to leave.

After a few more seconds of mindless questioning, he went down the corridor, heading for the stairs and muttering to himself. I didn't doubt that the next time I would see him, he would be miffed, but it didn't matter. I had to find Erik.

And there was really no better way to find someone than to use the secret passageways.

* * *

><p>It took only a few minutes to search the auditorium: only the Count and Jeanette were there, watching the first posing and talking to their guests. Jeanette looked stunning; her costume was fashioned as an upside down fleur-de-lis, and the Count appeared to be impersonating a knight or something. Perhaps Fraternity? I swept my eyes over the people below, but none of them was Erik.<p>

I left the passageways behind the auditorium and headed for the kitchen; Erik had been heading down to the first floor when he left. Perhaps he had ended up somewhere in the common area of the Opera House.

* * *

><p>Several long minutes later, I finally found a sign of Erik's presence – a note, held in place by a green-headed pin, was set into the mortar of the wall in my old room. His lute lay on the ground beneath it.<p>

The note was in Erik's handwriting, and it read, simply:

_I knew you'd come after me, you reckless girl: I'm going up to the roof with our friend – not anywhere near the garden, in case you are worried about the posing. Our friend is being rather quiet right now, but I think he'll talk eventually._

_- E._

I took the pin out, folded up the note, and put it in my pocket. Then I opened the secret passageway and went through, closing it silently behind me. _Finally._

* * *

><p>Erik <em>was<em> on the roof when I arrived, but his friend was nowhere in sight. I hurried across the rooftop to the black-haired, black-clad man in the snow, wrapping my arms around myself in an effort to keep warm. Ballerina costumes were not the best outdoor wear.

"Erik," I said hotly, "you are _never_ to do that to me again."

The Phantom turned away from the crumpled heap at his feet – it appeared to be a bundle of clothes – and looked down at me.

"I'm sorry," he said, in a very un-sorry manner. "It couldn't be helped."

"Of course it could have," I retorted. "But we can discuss that later. What is that?"

"_This_," Erik said, in the dangerous, purring voice I had come to know well, "is George Manchet. And he is one of the Inspector's fake policemen. George, meet Katelienne."

The heap of clothing moaned.

"She's much nicer than I am," the Phantom said to it. "I'm sure you'll like her. Katelienne, George here was about to tell me fascinating facts about the Inspector, but he fainted from terror. I'll help him up so we can start again."

I sighed. "Very well. But let's get him downstairs. As in, all the way downstairs. It's cold up here, and I can hear people talking in the garden, so I know they can probably hear us."

Erik, concurring, heaved the clothing bundle upright – a cloak slid off, revealing the bundle to be a pale, shaking man with brownish hair and terrified eyes. "Night, night," Erik said, and punched him in the nose.

I sighed again.

Men were always so theatrical.


	16. Chapter 16: Le Tumulte

_I went on a little vacation, which is why I have not posted in **forever**. But now I am back! Thank you for your lovely amazing reviews, and enjoy this chapter!_

* * *

><p>Erik tried to ask me to stay upstairs and watch the posings, but I quickly pooh-poohed <em>that<em> idea.

"What do you mean, leave?" I said, hurrying along after him down the dark passageway.

My voice echoed off the walls, sending fragments of my question back at me. "I've wanted to find out about the Inspector for ages. If you get to learn something about him, I do too."

Erik muttered something in a different language, something that was probably a curse word.

I frowned. "Lovely. Now you're cursing at me."

"I'm not cursing at _you_," Erik said, slowing down enough for me to catch up to him. The legs of his prisoner dragged on the floor like an awful sort of skirt. "I'm swearing at the _situation_. And you don't even know what I said. Also, if you hadn't followed me everywhere, I would have found out the information already."

"You went up to the roof," I informed him. "A stupid place to interrogate someone, don't you think? Especially since there's a posing going on up there?"

"All the other secret exits were blocked by costumed people," Erik said, frowning at me. "So I had to go up there to wait for you, seeing as you left your map in your room and you never remember the way to my house. I hate balls. The Count should be drawn and quartered."

I sighed and chose to pretend that I had heard nothing.

Although I liked a good argument now and then, at this moment I wanted to think about what we were going to do with our new information. After all, if the fake policeman told us about the Inspector's whereabouts, perhaps we could go after him. And Erik _had_ agreed to leave the Opera with me if this occurred.

I was also wondering what Nadir would do when we came into the house dragging an unconscious prisoner behind us. Would he say something witty and to the point? Would he gasp with horror? Would he only present to us a gaping, speechless mouth?

I thought it would probably be the first.

Erik (probably due to my silence) sulked most of the way to his house, the prisoner bouncing senselessly along behind him.

* * *

><p>Nadir met us at the door. "Who's that?"<p>

Erik grinned, apparently thrilled at the question. "A _guest_."

"He's one of the Inspector's fake policeman, currently masquerading as a… hmm… I don't know what he's masquerading as," I said. "Erik, what is he supposed to be?"

"Who cares?" Erik said. "Nadir, move, you're in the way. Let's get our _guest_ into the living room."

"Don't get blood on the rugs," Nadir said, shutting the door behind us. "I happen to like them. Where did you get them? In Paris?"

"Rugs are not my concern right now, Nadir, information is. Now go away. And take Irene with you."

I ignored Nadir's (very feeble) attempt to take my arm. "Erik, stop that. Nadir can stay. And so will I. Drop the man on the ground and let's get started."

Nadir indicated his long, droopy robe and shook his head. "I should probably get back to bed, actually. But thank you for the invitation to the… the interrogation."

Erik let the man slip out of his arms and onto the floor with a thump. The prisoner stirred, groaned, and let out a small shriek of dismay. I leaned closer, confused, and realized that the man had opened his eyes. In his direct line of sight was Erik – hence the scream.

Nadir, curious, stepped closer. "What's your name?"

"This is George," Erik said calmly. "George, meet Nadir. He's one of my friends too."

"I won't tell you anything," the man moaned. He flung one of his arms over his face, mussing his brown hair further. "And there's nothing you can do to induce me to speak."

I frowned. There had been a long pause after his first sentence, as though he had been about to say something else, but then stopped.

"George, we won't hurt you as long as you tell us about the Inspector," I said, adopting a soothing tone. "We know you're just one of his… one of his… minions. You remember me, don't you?"

"I doubt he remembers," Erik said, crouching down next to the prisoner. "After all, you're just some woman that he helped kidnap. After chasing her through a graveyard and shooting at her. I doubt he even recognizes your face."

And with his sarcastic monologue concluded, he took a knife out of his pocket and twirled it between his fingers. The blade caught the light, sending sparks of silver into the air.

* * *

><p>I stepped back, feeling my throat constrict.<p>

The prisoner on the ground tried to shift away, but Erik pinned his arm down and gestured to Nadir. "Get me some rope. And a basin."

"A basin?" Nadir said.

"To catch the blood," Erik said. "I'm not a world-class torturer for nothing."

This was too much. I knew Erik was only talking, only trying to get the Inspector's man to spill out a long confession of facts, but I could hardly bear to listen, or look at the knife in his hand; the knife glinting and glittering and shining like silver blood in the light.

_Luke, holding the knife, his blue eyes reflecting the blade, his __**smiling**__ eyes… And the blade, descending towards me in the light…_

* * *

><p>"Irene?"<p>

I came back to reality with a rush of sound and light and color. Erik had lifted his head towards me; the man on the ground beneath him lay perfectly still, for the knife dipped near his throat in Erik's forgetfulness.

"What?" I said, fumbling for the back of a chair. "I'm… I'm sorry. I have to… I can't…"

The knife in his hand sparkled.

Erik followed my gaze, started, and put the knife down on the stone.

He swept it away across the ground; it whirred across the marble and under the sofa. "Irene... Irene, sit down. Your face is white."

I sat down in his chair, and leaned my head back, trying to forget the dream-memory's horror. My hands were very cold.

A few seconds of silence ensued, broken only by Erik's soft breathing and the prisoner's gasps.

Nadir came back into the room, his footfalls rebounding off the walls, and halted. "Erik? Is there something wrong?"

"Take Irene out," Erik said. "Now. I'll finish this alone."

Nadir put the supplies down next to Erik and crossed the marble to offer me his arm.

* * *

><p>I took Nadir's arm and stood to leave, casting one look back at the eerie tableau: Erik leaned over the prisoner; his dark head was inclined menacingly, his lean form was coiled and tense.<p>

What happened next occurred so quickly that I was never quite able to correctly order the facts afterward. Had Erik cried out first, or was that I? Or was it Nadir?

There was a crunching noise (I thought perhaps Erik had broken something), a gasp of air, and a blurred movement from Erik, so quick that I didn't catch it. His hands had been at his sides – but now they were at the man's jaws, prying them apart.

I dropped Nadir's arm and stumbled over the marble to Erik's side, just as the man on the ground convulsed sharply, cried out, and lay very still.

Erik removed his hands from the man's lifeless face and drew back.

"Cyanide," he said, very quietly.

I could not comprehend this. "How? What happened?"

Nadir turned away.

"A pill, hidden in his mouth," Erik said. "He managed to swallow it."

"His body, Erik?" Nadir asked, his back still to us. "You cannot leave it here."

No, we couldn't leave the man's body here, not in Erik's living room.

Erik got to his feet, staring at the dead prisoner. "I don't know. In the lake?"

I felt ill. A body… in the lake?

But something caught my eye, distracting me, and I took a cautious step forward. "Erik, there's something in his pocket."

A white corner stuck out of the top pocket of the man's vest.

Erik reached down with a long arm and pulled it out.

"A note. In the same handwriting the Blackmailer's been using. It says: _You have one hour._"

He glanced up at us, and turned it over.

"It's addressed to 'Mademoiselle Irene Dubois'. And on the bottom, it says: _Or there will be another death._"

* * *

><p>Nadir promised to handle the problem of the body. Erik and I grabbed weapons and left, climbing up to the upper world of the Opera House in record time.<p>

"You go find Antoinette," I panted, dashing down the corridor to the staircase, Erik beside me, "and I'll go find the Count. I'll meet you in the left storage room next to the auditorium after I've got Francis."

"Agreed," Erik said, whipping the staircase door open.

We ran down the stairs and around the corner, nearly crashing into an ascending group of partiers. They broke apart and streamed around us: dancers, knights, singers, symbols… I wondered if one of them was marked for death. And if so, how could we figure out who it was? How would we be able to watch everyone?

There were nearly three hundred people at this ball, maybe more. It was impossible.

I went down the last steps in despair.

* * *

><p>Erik, as if he had read my mind, caught my wrist and pulled me into an alcove.<p>

"Irene, we must _try_, at least. I know it's nearly impossible, but we may be able to find out who is supposed to die next. And I have the beginnings of a plan."

I nodded, swallowed. "All right. I won't give up. Goodbye, Erik. Be safe."

"You too. Don't do anything idiotic."

He kissed the top of my head and hurried away.

* * *

><p>The Count was standing next to Jeanette, laughing with her about something, when I hurried up behind them. It had taken quite a long time to reach him, as there were many people around the posing, pointing and talking.<p>

"Count!"

"Katelienne!" said Francis, turning around in surprise. "Look at the marvelous posing! We got Madame Giry to be Saint Irene!"

"Isn't she wonderful?" Jeannette asked me with a smile. "Honoré's the dying saint."

I ignored her and sent Madame Giry (who was wearing all white and a pious expression, as she gazed down at the dying Saint Honoré) a pleading, strained look.

She met my eyes, frowned in confusion, and dropped Honoré's head with a thump. He sat up in astonishment, forgetting to play dead, and said, "What are you doing?"

The onlookers looked around at each other, unsure, as she got to her feet. I gestured at her to hurry up.

Francis, hurt by my refusal to acknowledge either him or Jeannette, tugged at my arm.

"Katelienne, what's the matter?"

"We have to go," I told him. "Now."

I didn't wait for a reply, nor did I even try to explain. Madame Giry pushed through the crowd and caught hold of my shoulder, still trying to divest herself of the white robe.

"What is it?" she whispered in my ear.

"Something awful," I whispered back. "Grab Francis; we have to go find Erik."

"I'm here."

I had never been so thankful to hear Erik's voice. I turned to see him, standing amidst the costumed people straight and tall and strong, as if he had enough courage to defy the whole world.

"Thank God," I gasped. "To the storage room. Let's go."

Antoinette had grabbed Francis' wrist and dragged him away from Jeanette; we four were almost to the entrance when a hush broke over the crowd.

A swooshing noise, like that of heavy cloth unrolling, came from behind us.

I turned, and a huge banner unfurled from the ceiling.

Francis breathed in sharply. "The lottery winner," he whispered. "It's supposed to say who's won the lottery."

Nobody else spoke. We were all reading the thick, harshly lettered phrases.

IRENE DUBOIS MURDERED LUKE GARMIN

SHE MUST STEP FORWARD OR ANOTHER PERSON WILL DIE

"Another?" Erik said, taking my hand in his. "What does it mean, another?"

I thought of the dead prisoner. _No, it couldn't be. __**You have one hour…**__ It's only been forty minutes._

The people nearest us had begun to talk and whisper and worry; I saw several people break from the crowd and hurry out into the hall past us. My heart pounded miserably in my chest.

* * *

><p>Erik dropped my hand and put his arm around my waist, pulling me out of the room with him.<p>

Antoinette and Francis followed.

"What are you doing?" I hissed at Erik. "Let go of me. Who's dead? Who has died?"

Francis' face was as white as pure cream. He turned huge eyes on me. "I have to go find Jeanette."

And without another word, he whirled, and ran back into the auditorium.

The voices were growing louder inside. Soon it would be pandemonium.

Antoinette put her hands to her head. "My girls. They'll be frightened. I must go." She cast a hopeless glance at me and Erik, shook her head in despair, and went back through the doors.

* * *

><p>Erik took a firmer grip on my waist and tugged me down the corridor, shushing me when I tried to speak.<p>

"Later," he murmured. "We'll talk after we get out of this."

"No!" I said, finally managing to squirm away from him. "I have to go back. We need to find out who is dead! Who can be dead, Erik? Who's dead?"

"Katelienne, please," Erik said, his voice almost breaking. "I won't let you go back in there. I know what you're thinking; you can't… you can't give yourself up."

He caught my wrist.

We were almost to the stairwell. I tore my hand from his grasp and ran in the opposite direction, back to the auditorium.

And in the distance, I heard screaming.

* * *

><p><em>Apologies for the cliffhanger... :)?<br>_


	17. Chapter 17: Un Assassiner

_Thank you for your reviews! Do you have any more? Haha :)_

_To resolve the Evil Cliffhanger, here is the next chapter:_

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><p>At the end of the night, I sat on the floor of Erik's bathroom and cried.<p>

* * *

><p><em>Six hours earlier…<em>

* * *

><p>I pushed one of the heavy auditorium doors open, cast a fearful glance over the crowd, and came to a sudden halt.<p>

The screaming was coming from one person, and that person was Andre Roquefort.

And he was onstage, screaming down at a woman's body, screaming at the rumpled mass of ruffles and sequins. There was bright red liquid in a large puddle around the pink fabric; it was still growing. The woman's pale arms were wrapped around herself, as if in protection. The blond curly head lay still on the floor.

I let the door fall shut behind me with a muffled bang.

Madame Giry had dropped to her knees on the stage; one of her hands was reaching for the pink ruffles. I thought, inanely, _don't touch them. She won't like it if you mess up her dress._

"Rose!" Andre screamed, his voice ripping and terrifying and wrong, "Rose, oh God, Rose!"

People nearest the stage were gawking and horrified; only twenty or thirty of the partiers were left in the auditorium. I could not see the Count or Jeanette.

A young girl, dressed as an orange butterfly, dragged herself up onto the stage with her arms. She got to her feet and ran to the body. I saw tears glistening on her face as she bent over the dead ballerina.

Madame Giry swept her eyes over the crowd, found me, and glared with the ferocious eyes of an incensed mother cat. _Go out,_ she mouthed. _Leave now._

But I didn't obey her. Perhaps it was because I could not look away from Andre, who was now wordlessly moaning something as he lurched closer to Rose's body. Or perhaps it was because the banner with my name on it was swaying gently back and forth in the stirred-up air of the auditorium.

In any case, I remained.

* * *

><p>Erik came through the door moments later, filling the entire room with his presence.<p>

"The manager has requested that everyone leave now," he said, his voice loud, penetrating. "Go home. Your money will be reimbursed."

Slowly, tremulously, the costumed partiers went down the aisles and out the doors past me. I could not look at them. I stared at my hands, wishing Andre would stop sobbing. His grief cut me like a knife.

Erik slipped past the partiers and up the aisle to the stage.

Madame Giry saw him coming; she shook her head, waving him off. Somehow, she had caught hold of Andre and wrapped her arms around the sobbing man, rocking him back and forth like a child.

The butterfly girl was draped over Rose's body, unable or unwilling to move.

I thought, vaguely, that she was probably a ballerina, that she was probably one of the girls that had known Rose.

Had known.

* * *

><p>Erik came back down the aisle; he touched a hand to my cheek. "We're leaving."<p>

Unresistingly, I let him lead me out of the auditorium. "What about Antoinette? And… and…"

I could not finish the rest of my question. It stuck in my throat.

"The Count has summoned the police," Erik said, walking faster. "They will be here any minute, and they will be asking you questions. We cannot have that."

I knew why they would be curious about me. I had been supposedly engaged to Luke. "Where are we going?"

"Down," the Phantom replied. "We are going underground. The Count says he'll throw the police off your trail as long as he can. And I will not let you give yourself up."

"But she's dead," I whispered. "Erik, they killed her. And they'll kill someone else too. I have to."

"_No._"

* * *

><p>In the passageways to his home, we argued, softly at first, then fiercely. Erik blocked my leaving; stood in the way like a stone monolith with long, winding ropes for arms.<p>

"I will not let you," he told me, "I will not let you go. Can't you see that's all they want?"

"I can't let anyone else die!" I shouted at him. "Don't you understand? She's dead because of me!"

We were nearly to the end of the passageways now, and I heard footsteps from the direction of Erik's home. Erik looked over my shoulder with eyes like cold lightning.

"Irene? Erik?" said Nadir's voice. "What is wrong?"

"A ballet girl is dead," Erik said from in front of me. "Whoever is trying to blackmail Irene murdered her. Supposedly, if Irene doesn't reveal…" He stumbled over the words, then caught himself. "…doesn't reveal her true identity, someone else will die."

I turned to look at Nadir, the blood pumping hard through my veins. "I won't let another person die. Nadir, you have got to help me."

Nadir's eyes slid past me to Erik. "What happens if she gives herself up?"

"She will be questioned, and she'll tell them everything. Oh, do not look at me like that, Irene, I know you will! You'll go to jail! And we still do not know how deep the Inspector's connections run in the Paris police; we cannot have you turn yourself in!"

There was a rush of footsteps, and Erik turned in a whirl of black to look behind him.

"Madame Giry – Count – what are you doing here?"

"We've received messages," Antoinette gasped. "And Francis has terrible news – the police –"

She was unable to go on; she looked as though she might faint. Her dark hair had come free from her bun, a few tendrils curled around her white face in disarray. Erik reached out and took hold of her arm.

The Count finished her sentence for her.

"The police have formally accused you of Garmin's murder, Irene."

His eyes were overbright, his face was flushed as though with fever. I felt my heart stop at his words. _Now everything is even more complicated… What am I going to do? _

I blurted out, "Where's Jeannette?"

"In a carriage on her way home," the Count said. "I thought it best. She knows nothing of you or Erik. But there is more."

Erik nodded curtly, still holding Madame Giry upright. "We'll finish this conversation inside. Irene, I'm asking you to stay. Please."

I swallowed hard, thought of Rose, and could not say it. "I… I can't, Erik, can't you see?"

"You're staying," the Count told me, and Antoinette nodded weakly from behind him. "We have more things to discuss."

"I agree," Nadir said. "Irene, please listen to us."

I looked around at them – four to one, and Erik was much faster than me, even hampered with Madame Giry. I'd never make it back up the passageway.

"I won't stay hidden down here for long," I warned them. "I can't. You have to know that."

"We do," Erik said, grimly. "Now let's go inside."

* * *

><p>Nadir pointedly avoided leading us down the corridor to the living room – he opened the kitchen door instead. Momentarily, I wondered what he had done with the body. But then I shook the thought away with a shudder and a surge of practicality. We had more pressing business to deal with.<p>

At the table, Erik pulled a chair out for me, tensely hovering behind it until I sat down. Madame Giry sat down across from me; the Count sat on her right. Nadir remained standing, at my back. I supposed he thought I'd bolt at any moment.

"Antoinette and I both received notes from the Blackmailer," Francis said, taking papers out of his pocket. "They're ominous."

Erik picked up the first note (there were three, not including Antoinette's) and read it, dropping it on the table when he had finished. I reached for the paper.

_Count Le Nansen –_

_In order to prevent other Opera workers from meeting an untimely end, you are ordered to continue performances as usual. The police will be allowed to remain in the Opera, under the condition that you do not disclose to them any of the Blackmailer's notes, nor the plot in which Irene Dubois is involved._

The second note read:

_Count Le Nansen –_

_Irene Dubois is ordered to reveal herself at the performance tomorrow night. If she neglects to do so, another Opera worker will die. _

I picked up the third with shaking fingers.

_Count Le Nansen –_

_Every performance that Irene does not reveal herself, another worker will die. Do you want it to be your _

And there was nothing else. I surmised that the Blackmailer had broken off in the middle for one of two reasons: one, they had been in a terrible hurry and hadn't been able to finish, or two, they wanted the Count to wonder which of his friends would die.

I thought it was most likely the latter.

* * *

><p>Antoinette's messages were the same; they threatened the ballerinas instead of the obliquely stated "Opera workers," but the sentiment was unchanged. I was to reveal myself as Irene Dubois at the next performance – namely, tomorrow night – or there would be another death.<p>

"What are the police doing?" Nadir asked from his position from behind me. "Have they started questioning people yet?"

The Count nodded. "Yes, they're tracking down the people at the ball. That was quick thinking, Erik, asking everyone to leave. It will take the police a while to find the spectators of the crime."

"Do they know who killed her? The ballet girl?" Erik said.

"As far as I could tell, no one does," Madame Giry interjected, clutching her cup of tea with both hands. Erik had made her some as soon as we entered the kitchen. "When I got there, she was lying on the stage. It… she… she was stabbed. But the weapon was missing."

"Did anyone see what happened?"

The Count looked at Antoinette. They both shook their heads.

Francis said, "I came in moments before she was attacked; I didn't even hear it. I thought I saw her up on the stage, helping the stagehands put the posing props away as I was getting Jeanette. Roquefort was up there too."

"I was about to turn and call her down when Roquefort started screaming," Madame Giry said. I noticed that the shoulder of her dress was wet. Andre had cried there, as she held him.

I winced, and looked away.

She continued, "Then… there was nothing anyone could do. The stagehands scattered. I suppose they were... frightened."

"Was there anyone, anything, out of place?" Erik demanded. "There has to be something you saw. Think."

The Count looked around in pained frustration, his hands clenching into fists. "I can't remember anything else, Erik. We were distracted – the crowds, the people – and I was looking for Jeanette. After Rose was attacked, lots of people left. Even if there had been someone there who didn't belong, we would never have seen them; the auditorium emptied so quickly."

Antoinette shook her head. "I'm sorry, Erik. I have nothing else either."

Erik stood.

"I'm going back up," he said. "I'll patrol the Opera tonight and see what I can find. Antoinette, you'll stay with Irene?"

"I do not need a babysitter," I said. "And Antoinette is tired. Nadir is here; I'll be fine."

Erik examined my face with his penetrating green eyes. "Very well. And I forbid you to try and finagle your way up to the Opera tonight. Nadir, watch her closely."

He turned away from me before I had a chance to answer.

"Count, Madame Giry," he told them, "I am going to seal all the passageways except for two. The one backstage – it's under a loose plank, and the one on the roof. So do not try to enter my home in any of the old ways after tonight. Not only will this place be turned upside down by the police search, but the other passageways are too accessible for my tastes. Is that clear?"

Francis and Antoinette nodded.

"I'll need clothing, Erik," I said, my voice rising. "You must allow me to go back to my room and get my things."

Erik stiffened. "Can't Madame -"

I got to my feet, shoving the chair out of my way. "No, you are not going to make Antoinette drag a suitcase down here. I'll do it myself. I'm coming with you. I promise not to run off and turn myself into the police. Besides, the notes specifically said that I could only reveal myself at the performances. I'm not about to do it now."

"Let her go, Erik," Antoinette said after a moment. "She wouldn't lie to you."

"I know," Erik said. "I know. Fine, Irene, but immediately after you gather your belongings, you are to return here. I won't do you the dishonor of escorting you to your room. I…" He let out a great sigh. "I trust you."

"Good," I said. "I'll be back here in a few minutes, then."

"Watch out for the police," the Count told me. "I didn't give them your room number, so I think you're safe for now. But they may return at any time."

* * *

><p>I kept this information in the forefront of my mind as I hurried back up through the passageways, taking the stairs two at a time. If I allowed my thoughts to wander, they would only turn back to Rose. Dead Rose, poor, dead, sweet, murdered Rose.<p>

How had I let this happen?

And was there anything, anything I could do to stop it from happening again?

I knew there was; I was only unsure of how to avoid my friends. I knew they would hamper me. I knew they would try to stop me.

But I had a plan.

* * *

><p>When I reached the mirror door of my room, I flung it open with one hand, and the dark shapes of my furniture loomed up at me from the darkness.<p>

But something was off. I reached out to the side. My fingers closed around something smooth and cold. Ah. The candle.

I lit it and stepped forward; something crunched under my foot.

I looked down at a ceramic dish.

It was one of the plates in my tea set. The delicate, broken porcelain glittered like white powder on the wood.

With a feeling of sickening horror, I looked up, lifting the candle high, and light sparkled off broken glass.

My belongings were strewn over the floor; a lamp lay crushed against the base of the window seat. Three of the mirrors were shattered, and my closet door was wrenched half off its hinges. The clothes within were pulled off their hangers. They filled the interior like so many colorful rags.

I tried to think. _Who would have done this? When did this happen? Was it the Blackmailer? One of the Inspector's men? The Poisoner?_

After a moment, I stepped cautiously through the ruins of my room and checked the door. It was unlocked; I locked it. Then I moved away, searching for the bag with my most precious valuables. A rush of cold air blew in through the windows – the panes were smashed; gaping holes had been broken in the glass.

It was difficult not to step on my bent and twisted jewelry. The little that remained intact was worthless. As I passed each broken item, I had to force myself to look away. I did not have time to weep. For all I knew, the intruder was close by.

The bag was stuffed into the crack between the cushions on the window seat. I reached down and pulled it out, loosening the strings to look inside.

It was dark; I lowered the candle, realized it would light the fabric on fire, and set it down. With a heavy heart, I turned the bag upside down onto the glass-covered cushion.

The box I had kept the diamond necklace in fell out, along with the old compass. I shook the bag harder, but nothing else came out. My pearl earrings were gone; so were other pieces of mine.

I told myself they were no great loss. It was not as if there was any sentimental value attached to them. I dropped the bag and picked up the necklace box. As I had thought it would be, it was empty.

I threw the box down in frustration, snatched up the compass, and dropped it into my pocket. It bounced against my thigh and lay there, inert, but for some reason its weight was comforting. I cast a miserable, hunted look around my destroyed room and rubbed my thumb over the compass.

It seemed I would have to gather whatever clothing I could and bring it back down to Erik's home. I sighed, turned, and my eyes fixed on my old wooden desk.

It, unlike the rest of the room, was untouched. The thief had been unable to open the drawers, even with the help of a crowbar (I found its telltale marks on the wood), and since I had the only key, they had failed. I pulled the chain from around my neck and fit the key into the lock. My notebooks with the Phantom interviews; my manuscript; my journal; these would be the things I'd take underground. The rest of my things were irreparable.

* * *

><p>A half hour later, I descended back down into Erik's abode, carrying two bags and hoping that I wouldn't run into anyone I knew. My face was streaked with tears – it had been impossible for me not to cry over my ruined belongings – and there was also the burden of Rose on my shoulders, a burden that crushed me beyond the little strength I had left.<p>

* * *

><p>After I threw my bags into the guest room, tried to smile at Nadir, and fled into the bathroom, I wept.<p>

I prayed that I would be able to carry out my plan. Because if it failed, another Opera worker would die.

And how could I bear to have another death on my conscience?


	18. Chapter 18: La Colère, La Tristesse

_New chapter! Yay!_

_Send me happy happy reviews?_

* * *

><p>Erik returned late that night, near two in the morning, to find me curled up in the corner of the couch. I was holding a book, but I was not reading it. Instead, I simply sat there, staring into the fire. It rippled heatedly in the hearth, snapping ferociously as red sparks leapt into the air. It was not difficult to compare the flames to my agitated mental state; they were nearly identical.<p>

"Irene."

I put the book down. "Anything?"

Erik shrugged out of his cloak, throwing it onto the back of his chair. "Nothing. There's no one out. Except for the police, but they're searching the auditorium for clues. And looking for you."

I fingered the compass in my pocket, waiting for him to bring the subject up himself, but he had stopped talking. I said, "I thought they would be. Erik – my room –"

"I saw it."

He crossed the room to sink down next to me; dropped his face into his brown, long-fingered hands. His next words were muffled. "I never thought anything like this would happen."

I reached out and slid an arm around his broad shoulders, leaned closer to kiss the top of his black head. Even if I couldn't be comforted, at least I could try to soothe him. "It's not your fault, Erik. You have to know that. I should have realized… I should have done something more. The Blackmailer is clearly more… _vindictive_ than we – than we thought."

My voice broke on the last word, betraying me, and Erik shifted, freeing his arm to pull me closer to him.

"Irene, it's not your fault either."

We sat together on the couch for a long time, both of us unnaturally silent.

* * *

><p>I woke up the next morning feeling ill.<p>

Today was the day of the performance; the day I had to put my plan into action. I slipped out from under the covers, throwing them aside, and stretched painfully. My wrists were sore; my neck ached. I yawned and tried to massage the pain away, but gave up almost immediately. There were more pressing things to attend to.

First, and foremost, I needed to get dressed. Then I would eat.

And then we would see.

The night before, after Erik and I had parted to go to our respective bedrooms, I had stayed up late, writing. The papers I had worked so long on lay on top of my desk – I moved across the thick carpet to slide them under the cover of my notebook, and then place the notebook under a stack of books. Erik would find the papers soon enough, if he needed to, and if he did not need to, then I would burn them.

One sheaf of papers was a will. My will.

The other, a love letter to Erik – a goodbye, mostly.

But if everything went according to plan, he need never find them.

And I prayed everything would.

* * *

><p>Erik was in the kitchen when I came in, cooking. Nadir was sitting at the table, fiddling with his fork, and not eating his eggs. I wondered if they were getting cold. The two men both looked at me when I opened the kitchen door.<p>

"Good morning," I said, and crossed the tile to reach the cabinets. "I'm not hungry, Erik, I'll just eat some bread."

Erik continued to shove eggs around in his pan. "I'm not going to drug your food, Irene."

I sliced off a corner of bread, put the carving knife down, and glanced over at the table. "Then why is Nadir not eating his eggs?"

With wide eyes, Nadir hastily shoved a forkful of eggs into his mouth.

Erik raised an eyebrow at me.

"Oh." I stood there for a moment, feeling annoyed and stupid and tired. "Well, then. But I'll still have bread, thank you. I'm not very hungry."

"Alright," Erik said, calmly. He turned back to his pan of scrambled eggs and scooped some out onto a plate. "Madame Giry wanted me to wish you good morning. She just left."

I frowned. "Did she? That's odd. She usually stays longer."

Nadir took another bite of eggs.

Erik shook pepper onto his.

I eyed them both suspiciously, picked up my bread, and went out of the room.

I'd eat in my bedroom. I would never be able to eat in that tense kitchen, eying them as they pretended everything was fine. And the whole idea that Madame Giry had left without waiting to see me was strange. Especially after the events of last night.

* * *

><p>Wednesday meowed as I passed the living room – I stopped and went in. I hadn't seen her since the week before; she was such a quiet, timid cat.<p>

I sat down on the couch next to her and offered her a piece of bread. "Want some food?"

Wednesday cocked her head to one side, her milky white eyes staring slightly to the left of the bread. Sometimes I forgot that she could not see, because her sense of hearing was so acute that she knew which people she liked and would go to them without preamble.

"Don't you want it?" I asked her again. "I'm not very hungry."

Wednesday put her paw on my arm and pushed down playfully, purring. I let the bread fall onto the cushion in front of her. She dipped her head and caught it in her jaws, then leaped off the sofa and trotted away to the hearth.

I leaned back against the cushions with a sigh. I was still feeling nauseous, and all the gruesome thoughts in my head weren't helping. _Poor Rose…_

_I wonder how Andre Roquefort is holding up. And the Opera workers, and the Count, and Madame Giry. I wonder what they are all doing right now._

* * *

><p>Erik joined me in the living room a little while later, having finished his breakfast.<p>

Nadir, who followed after a minute, stood in the doorway, looking a little uncertainly at the two of us – my head was on Erik's shoulder, and his arm was around my waist.

I was very sleepy, so what I made out of the ensuing conversation was shoddy.

"Am recovered," Nadir was saying, "so I thought I'd go back up to the surface for some food."

I closed my eyes as Erik replied. I could feel the vibrations of his voice against my face, from where it met his shoulder. "All right. Don't be too long. I want you back here by…"

The rest was lost in a wave of exhaustion. I slipped into a thick, heavy sleep.

* * *

><p>"Irene."<p>

Someone was saying my name. I yawned and tried to turn deeper into the soft cushions of the couch, but the voice was insistent.

"Irene, wake up. I have to leave – I want to say goodbye before I go."

I opened my eyes blearily, and found that Erik's face was hovering in front of mine. "You're wearing that stupid mask again," I told him.

"What?" His tone was so shocked that I came fully awake, and realized what I had just said.

"Oh. Forget that. I'm sorry. Where are you going?" I glanced at the clock – only ten-thirty. The day was still young.

Erik ran his fingers through his hair, sighed, and crossed the room to pick up his cloak. "Up to the Opera House. With luck, I may spot something helpful."

"Oh." I struggled up into a sitting position and rubbed a hand over my face. "I want to come; give me a moment and I'll get my cloak."

Erik threw the cloak over his shoulders. "No. You're staying here. The police are still around; you'll be seen."

"I will not," I said. "I'll be on the rafters with you. No one will see us."

"You cannot come," he said. There was no venom in his voice, no anger. It was as though he was simply stating facts.

"What if I simply follow you?" I demanded. "I doubt you can stop me."

My throat was dry; I reached for the glass of water on the table and drank deeply, then set it down again and glared at him. "Really, Erik, what are you going to do? Tie me up? And I know all the secret passageways; you won't be able to keep me here."

Erik turned slightly towards me; his voice was soft. "No, but Madame Giry will. I've asked her to stay here for the night."

And with that, Antoinette walked through the door and met my eyes with hers.

* * *

><p>"Irene, we cannot allow you to give yourself up," she said.<p>

My vision fizzled for a second – I could not see her. I brought a hand to my head. Everything was dim.

Then I blinked, and the light came back.

"What… what did you put in my water?"

"Erik," Madame Giry said, "Go. I'll handle this."

Everything was fading, as though the room was filling with water – dark, heavy water that obscured my senses and pulled me under into blackness.

I barely felt Erik's kiss on my forehead, or heard his parting words.

"_I love you. I'm sorry."_

* * *

><p>I woke to sunlight streaming onto my face; bright harsh yellow light that poked at my eyelids and made my head pound.<p>

With effort, I pulled myself into a sitting position and yanked the blankets down off my shoulders.

I forced my eyes open and looked up. I was in my old room; the curtains were flung open and the morning light poured itself like liquid gold onto the floor and over my bed. I blinked, confused.

"You're awake," Madame Giry said, in a voice that reminded me of something, but at the moment I couldn't remember. She leaned against the wall, hands behind her back, watching me.

"How does your head feel?"

"My head hurts," I said. "Do you have water?"

I had tried to swallow before speaking, but my throat was so dry that all I could manage was a sort of click in the back of my mouth. It was amazing that I had actually managed to form words.

Madame Giry nodded, and reached for a cup on the table. As the light flashed off the glass, sending fragments of rainbows onto the floor, I suddenly remembered what had happened.

I was out of the bed and on my feet before I realized what I was doing.

Antoinette simply looked at me and held out the cup. "I had to do it, Irene. The police were at the performance; if you had shown up and announced yourself -"

"_You_ put a sedative in my drink?"

"Who did you think had done it?" she asked me, still holding the water. "Not Erik, surely. I had to talk to him for most of yesterday night before he would agree to it. And mind you, he was very unhappy. He wanted to convince you, but I told him you would not be convinced."

I turned away from her, to the stark sunlight flooding the balcony, unable to find words.

"I assure you, it won't happen again. Erik has come up with a solution that will throw the police off your trail. Of course, that doesn't mean the Blackmailer or the Poisoner or who the he- I mean, whoever is truly after you will stop their vendetta." She drew a deep breath, sighed, and said nothing more.

I heard her coming towards me, her shoes clicking on the wooden floor. I didn't turn around. I was having a difficult time controlling my temper.

"And if I hadn't drunk the water?"

"Well, I thought you probably would. You see, once someone decides that the people in the house are not going to put things in their food, they become more relaxed. Usually. I thought you would trust Erik. So did he."

Her voice dropped a little at the last sentence.

I flung the balcony door open and stepped outside, reaching for the railing with angry fingers. How dare she put sedatives in my food? How dare she concoct a plan like that, behind my back, and drag Erik into it too?

And how _dare_ Erik agree to it?

"I'm telling you, Irene, it took a long time for your lover to agree."

"Don't call him that. I've told you before."

"Wouldn't you like your water?"

"No. Throw it out." I was acting childishly, but I was furious.

I heard her move away.

And then I remembered something else. "Oh, God! What day is it? Was someone – did someone - don't tell me someone d-"

I had whirled around to face her in my anguish; Antoinette faltered in her steps.

She shook her head.

"What does that mean?" I gasped. The room seemed to narrow, until all I could see were Madame Giry's dark eyes; the ground was unsteady under my feet. I wanted to reach back and grab the railing, but my body refused to obey me.

"No one died."

The rest of that almost-sentence seemed to be hovering in midair. "But what happened?"

"A stagehand was attacked. Erik tossed the assailant into the crowd below. He broke his neck, and the stagehand got away."

"What?" This was too much information, yet too little, all at once. "Who was the assailant? What did he attack the stagehand with? Who was the stagehand? Did he see Erik?"

I had more questions, but Antoinette shook her head sharply and held up her hand. "Stop. I will summarize. Go sit down; the morning air is making you pale."

The air had no correlation with my pallor, but I followed her instructions and came back inside, sinking down on the side of my bed (wait – it couldn't be _my_ bed – _my_ bed was ruined in the opposite side of the Opera!).

"Why are we _here_?"

"Erik's left this passageway unsealed," Madame Giry said, looking impatient. "It's one of three, and the other two are not suitable for a lady to sleep in, as you know. He dragged a bed over from the other room. Now stop talking and let me continue."

I nodded mutely.

Antoinette took a breath, set her shoulders, and launched into her tale.

* * *

><p>Erik had refused to let Antoinette accompany him to the rafters – he said shortly that she would be better off watching her ballet girls down on the stage.<p>

Madame Giry had considerable powers of persuasion at her beck and call, but she knew she had reached her limit with Erik. After the discussion of last night (and that horrible moment when Irene had lifted the water glass to her lips and drank) she was wise enough not to press him. She agreed, slowly, watching him stand motionlessly in front of the sofa in his living room, staring at the empty cushions where Irene had been dozing hours earlier.

She remembered the look on his face after Irene slipped into the clinging, drugging arms of the sedative – it was so raw and painful and guilt-filled that she nearly turned and fled the room.

Erik had not spoken to her for a full two hours afterwards.

After these long, long hours of sulking (as she thought of it), Antoinette had had enough.

"Erik. You cannot bottle it all up like this; you must let it out. Tell me something – yell at me – scream at me – _anything_ but stand there like a stone! We did it for Irene's own good. You know that."

"Please refrain from repeating that abominable phrase again," the black-haired man had growled. "It grows old all too quickly. I can only imagine what Irene would say."

"As can I," Madame Giry informed him tartly. "You must be thankful that we've got her out of this potentially deadly situation."

"I _am_," Erik said, reverting to a voice she had heard only once before – when he had been speaking of that poisonous former manager Garmin – it was smooth, silky, and furious. "But I do not stoop to trickery in order to force someone into another path. And never someone – never someone _this_ dear to me."

"I know you are angry, Erik," Antoinette pressed, pleased that he had finally brought this point up, "but you love her. I love her. And I daresay the Count loves her too, in his own friendly way. We've all agreed that until we manage to get her out of the Opera, we will not allow her to endanger herself."

"But I didn't – I did not -" He broke off. "I did not expect it to be so painful. God, what will she think of me? I've practically… I'm a monster."

"Then we are all monsters. Nadir bought the sedative, I put it in her drink, and each of us lied to her about it. Erik, if you are guilty of a crime – and I do not believe saving Irene's life counts as a crime – then so are we all."

Erik groaned aloud and beat his hand against the wall.

Madame Giry waited until he had stilled into silence.

Then she spoke again.

"Now look at me and tell me once more that you love her."

"Why?"

He turned away from the wall to face her; his tall, lean form caught at something in her heart and wrenched painfully.

Madame Giry blinked hard to dispel the mist that had suddenly appeared in her eyes. _Dear Erik. Dear, poor Erik. I will not let anything happen to him or Irene, I swear it._

"Because when you say it, dear, you are strong and brave and good. Love, Erik, is the strongest thing of all. Say it again."

_Make me proud._

Erik swallowed hard; met her eyes and straightened his back. "I love her, Antoinette. We will not fail her."

"No, we won't," she promised him. "Now go make me proud."

He bowed with the gracefulness that was his alone, and Madame Giry stepped aside to let him pass.

Erik paused at the door. "Madame Giry."

"Yes?"

"If anything goes wrong, you will tell Irene – you _will_ tell her -"

"I'll tell her you love her, Erik."

He shook his head, a dark lock slipping down to fall against his brown cheek. "No, I know you will tell her that. I want you to tell her to take care of you. If something happens to me, I mean."

The words were rough; Erik had been unsure of how to phrase them, but Antoinette thought she knew.

"Irene is very like you, Erik. She won't forget me."

Erik's eyes found hers. "I won't, either."

"Be careful tonight, Erik."

He nodded once, a short sharp dip of his chin, and Madame Giry smiled, faintly, in response. She really needed to find her handkerchief.

She watched him slip out the door and vanish into the corridor.

Then, with a sigh, she opened the door to the passageway that led backstage. It was necessary for her to be at the performance; her girls would worry if she didn't show. What Antoinette really wanted to be doing was staying in Irene's room - she worried that something might happen to her - but she told herself that the barricade of furniture that Erik had built against the inside of Irene's door would keep anyone unwanted out.

With one last glance at the passageway door to Irene's room, Madame Giry took a deep breath, straightened her back, and opened the other door.

It was time for the performance.

And Erik needed someone to keep an eye on him, anyways.


	19. Chapter 19: Retours en Arrière

_I apologize beforehand for the length of this chapter - I could not figure out a better place for it to end. But oh well._

_Thank you once again for your insightful and kind reviews! I hope you all had a happy New Year's!_

* * *

><p>Antoinette stood in the wings of the stage, watching the dancers as they glided noiselessly across the stage. It was the finale of the performance, and the music was building dramatically, springing forward, flying higher and higher.<p>

She wondered if her heart was ever going to stop pounding.

* * *

><p>Above her, above the stage and the performers, the orchestra and the breathless audience, Erik stood in the shadows, watching over his domain. As of tonight, no one had met their demise at the hands of the mysterious killer (or killers) – yet – and he wanted it to remain that way.<p>

The Opera workers had banded together after Rose's death. This was not only because there was a murderer on the loose, but also because each of them had arrived back at their rooms the night before to find threatening notes. Erik, after a long hour of eavesdropping on one of the more annoying stagehands, had finally gotten his hands on one.

It read:

_You may think that Mademoiselle Rose's death is unconnected to you. But on the contrary, it has everything to do with you – your death may be next. Therefore, it is with complete honesty that we write thus to you: Do not leave the Opera before the end of the winter or you will meet a hasty, uncomfortable end._

In fact, each note was exactly the same; the other Opera workers discussed this for some time, and finally came to the inevitable conclusion that the Opera Ghost must have sent them. Erik, for his part, presumed that their enemies had access to a printing machine.

The workers had remained awake for most of the night, talking with one another, stockpiling weapons, and forming a small militia, which they code-named L.U.O.P. (short for Legion of United Opera Workers), and which was pronounced like "loupe." This militia was comprised mostly of stagehands, seamstresses, performers (not including the ballet girls), and all the main leaders of the Opera workers (including a laconic Honoré), except for Antoinette. Instead of joining L.O.U.P., she had promptly escorted her girls to carriages and sent them home at the end of the ball. As she had told Erik, she did not "want scores of furious parents arriving in response to terrified letters home." Unfortunately, not all of the girls _had_ homes, and so she was forced to let a few of them remain.

But Madame Giry was lucky. The ballet girls that remained were only three: Iris, Jiminy, and Elaine; and each of them were street-smart and carried knives. After a long talk with them, Antoinette determined that they would be able to last for a week or more without bodily injury, or at least until she could find a place for them to go.

Erik held all of this in the back of his mind as he swept his eyes over the auditorium, fingering the knife in his belt.

* * *

><p>It was clear the three stagehands in the rafters were noticeably distracted tonight. One of them, a pale, pudgy fellow with nervous hands, seemed unable to decide if the center of the rafters, where the audience could see him, or the back in the shadows, where no one could, was a better place to stand – he kept galumphing from place to place, stopping several times to send frightened glances in all directions. Erik privately thought that he resembled a very jumpy toad.<p>

The second stagehand was that pesky blond-haired man who had startled Irene a few weeks ago, the one who drank too much. He did not watch the Toad's antics; he stared at the performers with an air of utter disdain as he leaned against one of the beams, gnawing his nails.

Erik found that it was quite easy to dislike him.

Earlier, the stagehand had been fiddling with a pair of opera glasses, flashing them around at the rafters, and nettling Erik intensely as light reflected off the glass and sparked at the corners of the Phantom's vision. Presumably the blond was looking for his boss, making sure he was unnoticed as he snuck another drink; the head stagehand was not in the rafters tonight, but he could show up at any moment. Erik could see the ever-present bottle placed strategically between the man's boot and the beam.

The third stagehand, someone Erik did not hate yet, was a dark-haired boy with eyes like slits – he was newer than the rest. Erik was keeping a suspicious eye on him. It would not surprise him to learn that this boy was one of the Inspector's recent hires, especially considering the fact that this stagehand had several knifes hidden about his person. He was sitting on the rafters, probably waiting for the cue from whomever the Inspector had hidden in the audience.

This was ironic, because Erik was waiting for a cue, too.

For a moment, he considered dropping by the blond stagehand's area and whisking the bottle away under the cover of Jeanette's loud singing, but he vetoed the idea before it came to full fruition. It wasn't that he was unable to sneak the whiskey away without drawing attention to himself; it was only that he needed to guard his people from the murderers, who were presumably even now lurking in the corners of the Opera, waiting for a chance to strike.

Once again, he was thankful he had told Nadir to stay with Irene. He would take no chances tonight.

* * *

><p>The sound of raucous applause drew Erik's attention to the stage. It appeared the performance was over. Madame Giry stepped a little ways out of the wings and glanced up at him, her dark hair glimmering in the bright lights. She looked tired.<p>

Erik waved at her, but carefully. It would not do if anyone saw him, particularly since the police were here tonight – Erik could just see the shining bald head of one of them, from behind a mass of pulleys, as he turned to speak to his neighbor. They needed to work on their disguises; Erik had spotted each of them as soon as he had entered the auditorium, due to poorly fitting suits and suspicious bulges in their jackets. Guns were not welcome in his Opera.

But there was nothing he could do about it tonight, and this thought flashed through his head as he heard the creak of someone moving across the rafters: _But that's all right; I have other things I can do instead –_

* * *

><p>And he spun to see that the snake-eyed boy (having taken up a new position behind a huge beam) had drawn a knife out of his vest and reached back to throw it at the Toad, who was crossing the rafter just in front of him.<p>

Erik moved, without planning, thought, or noise – one instant he was three rafters away; the next he had landed next to the snake boy and caught the hand with the knife.

Snake squirmed, trying to pull his hand away, and cried out with a strangled sound. Erik hit him sharply in the side of the head with his elbow and wrenched the knife from his grasp.

Down below, people were still clapping – the applause had dampened the sound of Snake's cry, but Erik thought he saw one of the disguised policeman rise to his feet and reach into his coat, looking upwards. Erik scowled, pulling Snake behind a mess of ropes and rafters into the shadows, thankful that the boy was unconscious.

Across the rafters, Toad was still oblivious, but the blond-haired man was peering around for the source of the cry, frowning.

Snake groaned at Erik's feet and tried to sit up – Erik hit him again, knocking him out, and began to make his slow, silent way off the rafters. He had no intention of letting anyone see him.

Unfortunately, the blond-haired man was moving towards him now, ducking under ropes and stepping over lanterns, his face dark. He put a hand into his jacket as he crossed the second rafter; now only twenty feet away. He probably thought that the Opera Ghost had swooped down from the ceiling and attacked a stagehand; Erik doubted he had seen Snake's threatening movement, preoccupied as he had been with his whiskey.

Erik cursed inwardly and dragged Snake to his feet, intending to open the wall and vanish – but the boy had begun to struggle. Twin black irises gleamed at Erik in the dim light; a fist shot out at Erik's face. Erik blocked this feeble attack with a twist of his free arm and reached for the latch of the secret passageway.

There was a tiny whizzing noise, like steam hissing from a tea kettle. Erik twisted away as a projectile spun past his ear, feeling death miss him by a single heartbeat.

Snake, who had managed to pull away from Erik a moment before, staggered, clutched at his throat – a tiny dart bobbed between his fingers, a thin stream of blood already dripping down his collar – and collapsed.

The corpse slid off the rafter and toppled, spinning, heading for the crowd below. Erik stared after it for the space of a second, and then remembered that he was in grave danger from a furious stagehand with vengeance on his side.

He whirled – and found that the rafters were completely empty.

After a moment, he located Toad (bouncing hurriedly through a door) – and the blond man (fleeing through a second door) - and he deduced that departure would be the best policy, especially considering the pandemonium that had broken out in the auditorium at the arrival of the body.

He unlatched the secret door and vanished.

It was good to know that people still ran at the mere sight of him.

* * *

><p>As he made his way through the dank passageways, he listened intently to the soft sound of footsteps following behind. Interested in finding out which of the S.C.O.W.L. members was currently pursuing him, he stopped at a dark twist in the path and waited, invisible.<p>

Moments later, Nadir came into view, wearing a frown. He came to a halt, and bent over to take several long breaths, hands on his knees. Apparently he had been running. And this was not well; Erik knew Nadir was still feeling ill.

With this depressing thought, he stepped out from behind the corner. "I thought you were supposed to be with Irene, Nadir."

His friend appeared unsurprised at Erik's sudden appearance. "I was, but Madame Giry arrived, and I decided that it would be nice to see the performance. You know, admire the ballet, listen to the _enchanting _music, sigh with complete rapture at the stunning plot… Well, until a corpse from the ceiling, complete with bloodstains, arrived in my lap."

Erik raised one eyebrow.

Nadir attempted a smile. "Only a joke?"

Erik scowled. "Go back downstairs, Nadir. I don't want any invalids wandering around my Opera at night, especially when there are murderers on the loose. And do not come back up. Stay there and rest."

Nadir shrugged. "I will. I have just one question, though."

"Yes?" Erik said, holding his temper back.

"I presume that the corpse was one of our enemies?"

"Yes," Erik said, shortly. "Is that all?" He was tired, and he wanted to see Irene, and the memory of her face rose up in front of him, suddenly choking him with longing. "I'd like to get to Irene."

Nadir nodded, and turned to go down the corridor. "Goodnight, Erik. Get some rest, why don't you. I'll see you in the morning."

"Goodnight, Nadir."

* * *

><p>Erik found Antoinette sitting on a chair next to Irene's bed, her head in her hands. Even his loud knocking hadn't stirred her.<p>

He had no clue how to proceed – he cast around for suitable reactions, realized he had nothing, and finally ended up coughing quietly.

Antoinette dropped her hands from her face and sat up. "Hello, Erik. Irene won't wake for several hours; her pulse is still slow." The ballet instructor's hair was mussed; her eyes were red, and there was evidence of tears on her face.

Erik crossed the room and stood next to her, looking down at the sleeping Irene.

"This is not your fault, Madame," he said, studiously studying the pale curves of Irene's face as Antoinette dabbed under her eyes. "We knew the consequences of our actions; Irene will eventually come to terms with our decision."

"I'm not crying over the fact that we've saved her life, Erik," Antoinette retorted, balling up her handkerchief. "I'm crying because someone is trying to kill her, and we have no idea who. Whom, I mean. We have no idea. And Irene is smart. After this, she'll figure out another way to go behind our backs and reveal her identity."

"We will foil her plan, Madame. We have done so already."

Madame Giry made no reply to this obvious attempt to console her. She sniffed, got to her feet, and hurled the handkerchief at the fire. It missed, but she did not seem to care. "What happened up on the rafters? Was it – one of them?"

Erik saw no reason to drag his explanation out, so he summarized. "A fairly new employee attempted to kill another stagehand. I stopped him. A third stagehand attempted to intervene. His dart caught the Inspector's man in the throat. I let the corpse fall, stupidly. The other stagehands ran away."

His explanation thus concluded, he stopped speaking and turned his attention back to Irene. The sedative still held her in its grasp; she breathed faintly, the blankets over her chest rising and falling almost imperceptibly. Erik prayed that the drug would have no adverse affects.

Antoinette waited for a moment, and when it appeared that nothing else was forthcoming, she sighed and said, "Very well, then. Erik, sit down. We are going to discuss this whole mess sensibly. Let's start at the beginning. Tell me who Irene's enemies are."

Erik sat down on the edge of Irene's bed, taking care to leave her plenty of room, and put his hand over her cold one, which lay half-open on the blankets like a fallen, curled leaf. "Shall we start at the very _very_ beginning, or just the beginning?"

"We will begin with Garmin," Antoinette said decisively. "Start listing names."

* * *

><p>An hour later, Madame Giry left with her list, intending to show it to the other two members of S.C.O.W.L., and Erik appropriated the chair she had vacated.<p>

"Irene, I am so sorry," he told his love. "I never thought any of this would happen."

Irene lay still, still as death, and did not respond.

Erik watched the night breeze stir the hair around Irene's face, the auburn wisps lifting softly into the air and dropping down again. "Tonight was rather lonely without you."

Silence.

But what did he expect, a reply? He drew in an irritated, self-repulsive breath and got to his feet, striding to the balcony door and out. Perhaps the night air would bring him back to his senses.

* * *

><p>Outside, he looked out over the buildings, remembering how he had met Irene here one day to discuss the problem of Garmin, only to find out that she had temporarily dyed herself blue. He remembered the expression on her face as she woke to see him – stunned annoyance, with a smidgen of amusement at her appearance – and had to smile. Irene. Always so unpredictable.<p>

Which was precisely why nothing was ever easy with her. Well, with the exception of his face, and the friendships she had struck up with Antoinette and the Count, and the facile way she strode around the Opera as if she had bought it herself. But really, nothing scared her, even the things that should.

He wondered what she would say to him when she woke.

"_Erik, you are in so much trouble. You cannot even __**imagine **__the size of the hole you've dug."_

No, that was too shrewish.

"_Who put it into your head that the only way to stop me was to sedate me? Have you lost your mind? I would never do something like that to you!"_

Ah, but she would, if his life was in danger and it was the only idea she had. And she wouldn't say something that she knew to be untrue.

"_This won't happen again, Erik; you know that, right? And that's because I've come up with a plan."_

That was more like it.

A knock at the door: the Count, ready for his watch.

Erik picked up his cloak, casting one last look at Irene. It was time for him to steal through the Opera, searching for workers in danger.

For if the murderers hadn't managed to kill someone yet, they would strike again.

* * *

><p><em>Ten hours later…<em>

* * *

><p>Madame Giry folded her arms and looked at me with her dark eyes. "That's it, Irene."<p>

I leaned against the balcony railing, letting the wind wash over me, and took a long breath, trying to think of words. "Where's Erik now?"

"He should be back soon," Antoinette said. "He went to go check on the Opera workers. But before he left, we came up with a plan."

"Does it entail sedatives?" I asked grumpily.

Antoinette's eyebrows rose. "No. Do you want to hear it or not?"

"I suppose I must," I said. "But I will override it if it appears I need to."

Antoinette fixed me with a black Look far beyond anything I would ever be able to muster up, and said, "Very well. Sit down and listen."

It was with a feeling of trepidation that I came off the balcony and back into the shadowy room to sit down on the edge of my bed.

"Go ahead," I said.

"Tomorrow," Madame Giry began, "you are going to leave Paris and go into the country. You have family out there, correct?"

I opened my mouth, found no words, and closed it again.

Antoinette smiled. "Alright, alright, you are not actually going to leave Paris. You are only going to _pretend_ to. The carriage will stop and let you off in a field outside of the city; Erik will arrive moments later and take you back to the Opera on horseback. With luck, the villains will follow your carriage, which will continue as far as it can possibly go, in all sorts of directions; hopefully, they will wear themselves out chasing a false trail and fail to return for quite some time. You will stay in the underground section of the Opera, as everyone will think you've left."

She folded her arms and smiled some more.

The only thing that I managed to say was: "Who came up with this plan?"

"I'm pleased you asked that," Madame Giry said, preening herself. "It was I. And now I think I hear Erik – let me get the door."

* * *

><p>It was Erik.<p>

He came in cautiously, almost shyly – looking at me with wide green eyes as if expecting me to keel over at his feet. I took a step towards him, watching the expressions shift over his face: self-loathing, hope, sadness, curiosity, love.

"It's alright, dear," I found myself saying, without meaning to say anything, but the words spilled out of their own accord, like pure golden notes from a singing violin. "I forgive you, Erik. But -"

"But you have a plan?" Erik said, black eyebrows flickering upwards. He reached out a long arm; the back of his fingers caressed my cheek. "So it will never happen again?"

"Something like that," I told him, and went into his arms.

* * *

><p>Madame Giry had to cough loudly several times before we would break apart. Erik kept hold of my hand, though; and I leaned into him, although I didn't need the support.<p>

"Always disrupting our few moments together," Erik observed, turning his head in Antoinette's direction. "For shame."

"For shame?" Antoinette inquired, disbelievingly. "And it's as though you two were not pressed together half a moment before-!"

Luckily, I cut her off before she could go any further. "Yes, well, forget that. And quit the melodrama, Madame Giry, I know exactly what you think of Erik and I, and it is not that. Erik, Antoinette has just finished telling me about her _Plan_."

I had emphasized the _Plan_ on purpose; I knew it would needle Antoinette, and for some reason this made me altogether a little too amused.

For her part, Antoinette pretended that she was deaf.

Erik looked interested. "And what did you think?"

"I think you should better bring me an extra cloak," I said. "Standing knee-deep in a snowy field waiting for hours for my noble rescuer to gallop up does not sound cozy. Oh, yes, and I think someone should provide hot chocolate."

Antoinette snorted delicately. "And who on earth would do that? You'll have to be satisfied with another cloak, Irene. Now, if you'll both excuse me, I have things to do."

She turned on her heel, found the hidden panel in the wall, and rapped her knuckles on the wood. The secret passageway opened; she pulled a candle out of her pocket and lit it.

Erik made a disparaging noise, but what looked like great effort, managed to say nothing. He hated fire in his passageways.

Antoinette ignored this. With a sniff, she inclined her head at both of us, turned away, and held her candle high as she went into the darkness. The panel shut.

* * *

><p>Erik and I looked at each other. One of his eyebrows rose, as if tugged by an invisible string.<p>

"If you say, 'will you kiss me,' I will smother you," I said. "I'm exhausted. Go sit down over there while I take a nap."

"You've slept all day," Erik pointed out. "And I haven't kissed you all day."

"Except for about two minutes ago. And please wipe that pitiful expression off your face; you look like a sick dog."

Erik protested at this, so I took it back, but only after he agreed to let me sleep for another hour.

* * *

><p>"I suppose the drug is still in your system," he said, after a moment in which I had nearly nodded off.<p>

I groaned unintelligibly and pulled the covers up next to my ears.

"Aren't you hungry?"

"In one hour, you can take me back down to your house and feed me whatever you want," I said through the covers. "But right now I am going to sleep."

A moment of silence, then:

"But you haven't eaten all day."

I wrenched the covers down and glared at him. He was perched on the chair next to the wall, his face innocent.

"I know. I was not the one who had the idiotic notion of sedating me. Now shut up so I can sleep."

"I can see that drugs do not agree with you," Erik mused, studying his hands. "I'll never sedate you again."

"You bloody well better not," I spat, tiredness making me acidic. I rolled over on my side and wrapped an arm around my head. Perhaps he would be silent _now_.

* * *

><p>Five minutes of blessed, blessed silence ensued this time.<p>

Then: "Would you like potato soup, or crepes?"

* * *

><p>Two minutes later, Erik and I were heading down below. He was lugging my suitcase; I was nursing my bad temper. Despite this, he was happy. And humming.<p>

_And_ still talking.

"Do you want milk with dinner, or wine? Or what about orange juice? I bought some yesterday, when you were… erm… _resting_."

Perhaps it will come as no great surprise to the reader that I slugged him.


	20. Chapter 20: Libre Volonté?

_Thank you for your patience, dear readers. Here is the revised chapter!_

* * *

><p>The next morning, I dressed in my warmest gown and flung my heavy cloak over my shoulders. As I looked into the mirror in Erik's bathroom, I saw a young, frightened woman staring back at me, her dark eyes bewildered.<p>

What had I gotten myself into? Could we possibly be able to shake the murderers off?

I wondered if my peace of mind would ever return.

* * *

><p>A half hour later, I was in a dank, dark corridor, rubbing my cold hands together for warmth and watching the torchlight flicker on the greasy walls. We were in one of the least used passageways; a long black corridor that led to the outside world, through a sliding wall operated by hidden machinery. Erik was the only one who had the key.<p>

Nadir was waiting outside with the carriage. I could hear the dim sounds of people passing through the street nearby, shopping for bread and milk, going about their daily, peaceful lives.

For one painful, heart-wrenching moment, I wished that my friends and I were just as innocent and safe. What a wondrous boon that would be.

My thoughts were interrupted by the clicking of heels across the cobblestones – I looked away from the blank stone wall to see Madame Giry, her skirts held above the dirty floor, gliding towards me through the musty darkness.

"You look lovely, dear," she said, reaching me. "If anything happens, go into the woods and hide. Erik will find you."

Erik was standing at the end of the secret passageway, outlined with light from the half-open door. "I certainly will."

Having shut the door, he walked down the corridor towards us, his hands in his pockets. "Have you seen the Count?"

"Oh, he came down an hour ago and said goodbye," I said. "Aren't you supposed to be leaving at the same time Nadir and I do, Erik? I mean, you have to be following the carriage, in order to pick me up when we stop."

"I'll be there," Erik said, and did not answer my question.

I frowned.

Madame Giry swept her eyes from me to him, smiled, and said briskly, "Well, I'll be off. When you get back, Irene, send Erik up with a note, won't you? I want to know exactly when you arrive. _Be careful_."

This last line was directed not only to me, but also to Erik. He stopped next to me; we both nodded and smiled and said our goodbyes, and Madame Giry went away down the passageway, carrying herself like a monarch.

And she had every right to, of course – she was as noble as any Queen.

But also as conniving.

* * *

><p>"You had better tell me what you're doing," I warned Erik, as he reached down to take my hand. "And it better not be anything stupid."<p>

Erik raised one eyebrow at me. "I am not doing anything 'stupid,' Irene. I won't be following the carriage; it would be much too obvious."

"I thought we had agreed that you would take side streets and alleyways," I said, crossing my arms. "What are you going to do instead?"

"Before you say no, I will still be there at the appointed time, Irene," Erik said, turning my hand over in both of his. "But instead of sneaking along behind you, I plan to take out a few of our attackers. If any of the Opera workers follow you out, it seems to me that they will, most likely, be our murderers."

"They may not be," I said. "We cannot know that for certain. And besides, we want them as far away from the Opera as possible, not caught up in a street brawl in Paris. Erik, I know you're tired of not being able to do anything, but we can't act on impulse. Furthermore, as we discussed earlier, it seems that our enemies are stretched thin; otherwise they would have managed to kill again already."

"As I stated earlier, I think they are recruiting new members. They'll be back to full strength soon, if they are as cunning as we think," Erik replied, dropping my hand. "It would be folly not to attack them while we have the upper hand."

I took a step forward and put my hand on his shoulder. "I do not think you should do anything until we know for certain. Please agree, Erik; this is important."

The Phantom let out his breath in a long sigh, lifting the ends of my hair into the air. "All right. But if they attack the carriage, I _will_ subdue them."

"Agreed."

* * *

><p>A half hour later, I was in the carriage, bouncing along a country road. We had just passed through the gates of Paris.<p>

While in the city, for some reason I had felt calm and safe; but now, as the stones jarred my bones and the horses' hooves thumped into the soil, my heart pounded like a drum. Perhaps it was that my stop was soon; or maybe it was because I was worried about Erik, galloping after us through the foggy, narrow side streets; but whatever the cause, I was tense.

We rattled down the road, passing bare white trees, stripped of their leaves by the winter; long fields of waving weeds and wheat. Nadir seemed to have found his stride – when the carriage had first started, the horses shot forward in spurts and starts, ignoring him, but now the carriage bumped steadily onward.

After ten minutes or so, I wondered why Nadir hadn't stopped yet. There had been several fields that seemed like convenient hiding places (if not comfortable), but the carriage had rushed past them, almost as if it never intended to stop.

_As if it never intended to stop…_

"Nadir!"

* * *

><p>Three miles away, Erik was in the midst of a fistfight.<p>

_I told Irene I wouldn't do this,_ he thought to himself, ducking as a thug tried to brain him with a shovel, _but it was completely out of my hands._

He had been en route, traversing the alleyways and always keeping Nadir's hat in the corner of his eye, when a whole lot of rather dangerous-looking people with bloodshot eyes and scruffy hair streamed into the alleyway and blocked his path.

Erik pulled back hard on the reins – the horse reared up, kicking out its front legs – and the man in front (a nasty fellow with rotting teeth) pulled a gun from his coat.

The Phantom found himself on the ground, having jumped off the horse, a throwing knife in his hand. His hood had fallen back from his face during his descent – the gunman's fingers loosened, and the weapon dropped onto the grimy cobblestones, with a metallic thunk, at the sight of the Phantom's scars.

Erik was not wearing his mask; he and Irene had decided it that with it he was too conspicuous. He fought the urge to put a hand over his face. Instead, he reached down and picked up the gun, slipping it away under his cloak for safekeeping.

"Who sent you?"

Teethy (as Erik had decided to call him), only swallowed, his Adam's apple bobbing unpleasantly.

The six men behind him looked uncertainly at their leader.

Erik sighed and reached out a long arm. If Teethy wasn't going to say anything, he supposed he would have to make him. He did not have much time to waste.

* * *

><p>As the Phantom's hand closed around his throat and lifted him bodily from the ground, Teethy realized two things: one, if he did not get out of here soon, he would never leave; and two, if he told this very frightening beast anything, <em>she<em> would have his head.

"Gack," he managed to croak, but thankfully his cronies were intelligent enough to understand this – they sprang forward, wielding weapons (knives, clubs, swords, etc.) and attacked.

* * *

><p>Erik dropped Teethy and swiped at the closest of his attackers, sending the man sprawling onto the stones, his sword clanking after him.<p>

"I – hate – people," he growled, driving the knife into the shoulder of the second man and following the blow up with a kick to the groin. The third man slammed a club into the back of his head – Erik saw an explosion of bright stars – and then the pain vanished as he spun to grapple with this new attacker.

As they rolled around on the ground (it seemed this man was trained in hand-to-hand combat), Erik tasted blood and tried to dodge hits from above, as the other men gave up on common sense and threw things. Things like stones, sticks, knives, and old bottles. Glass cracked and splintered around Erik's head, cutting a divot through his forehead and dripping blood down into his left eye.

His hands found the other man's throat – he squeezed, closing the man's windpipe, and dug a knee into his opponent's stomach to hold him down. Three seconds – six seconds – ten – and the man finally went limp.

Erik got to his feet in one motion, fueled by adrenaline, and threw himself at the rest of his attackers, blind and deaf to everything except for the sound of fists on flesh and grunts of pain.

All he could think was: _Irene must be furious._

* * *

><p>In the meantime, I considered my options. Nadir had not answered my shouts; I assumed he had been told not to. The doors were locked – I presumed Erik had snuck around and locked them after I had gotten in. The windows could be opened, but I was incapable of getting out <em>that<em> way, as they were about six inches in both width and length.

I could stop the carriage by force, (but with what, I did not know) and in doing so, possibly injure Nadir and the horses. This was not really an option.

Or I could trick Nadir into letting me out. Vomiting was always a good ploy, but I was loath to do so, especially since I needed my strength, and also since I was not particularly fond of the smell.

Or I could bide my time. Nadir would have to stop sometime – he needed to rest the horses eventually, and I knew there was a small town only twenty or so miles away. I would get out there; he would not be able to stop me except by physical force (and the poor man was too much of a gentleman to do so); and we would have a little discussion.

I pulled a hairpin from my hair and set to work on the lock.

* * *

><p>An hour later, we passed through the small town of Bouchet – and kept going.<p>

I rapped on the window, loudly. "Nadir! Stop the carriage! Where are we going?"

There was no reply, but I had figured it out.

We were going deep into the countryside. Not my home, because we were heading in the wrong direction, but to Somewhere Else. I didn't know exactly where this place was, but I had a strong feeling that Nadir (and Erik, and Madame Giry, and the Count) _did_.

In fact, I was sure they did.

I only hoped that when we got there, Nadir would be so exhausted from his carriage ride that he'd be unable to stop me from leaving.

But I doubted it.

* * *

><p>When the carriage finally came to a stop in the middle of a forest, I promptly whipped the door open and climbed down.<p>

My feet sank into mud. I glanced around, fumbling in my bag. There was a small cottage through the trees; it was probably where I was to stay, at least until the horses were recovered from their journey.

Nadir stepped off the box, watching me warily. "I'm sorry, Irene, but Erik asked me to take you to safety."

"To safety?" I inquired, finally finding the thing I had been looking for. "We're in the middle of a forest, and it seems that our enemies are still behind us."

"We lost them an hour ago, Irene."

He was correct; I was only trying to distract him. I took a measured step towards him, my hand hidden in the bag, wrapped around the syringe I had filled with sedatives this morning. The mud pulled at my shoes, making it difficult to advance any further.

Nadir took a step back (and winced as mud squished onto his pants).

"Erik will be here soon," he said, calmly. "Even if you knock me unconscious, you won't get far."

"I will," I countered. "I am a capable rider."

Nadir shrugged. "I am a capable fighter."

I looked him over – lean muscles, intent eyes, hands hanging loose at his sides. "I… I suppose I believe you."

"Well, since you do, please put your bag down and get back in the carriage. I can't imagine why Erik didn't take all your weapons."

"Because, Nadir, I knew I'd be here."

It was a very familiar voice. I scowled and let the syringe thump into the bottom of the bag.

* * *

><p>Erik, cloak-less, horse-less, dirty, scruffy, and bleeding, came into view from behind an oak tree.<p>

"What happened to you?"

That was Nadir. For my part, I gave Erik a scathing glare and walked past the two men, heading towards the cottage. If he was injured, it was his own fault. I had told him not to get into a fight.

"I ran into a problem," I could hear him saying. "Several of them, to be exact. Did everything go according to plan?"

"So far." Nadir did not sound sure. "I suppose Antoinette will be relieved."

"Hmph," said Erik.

It sounded as though Antoinette had wheedled Erik into carting me off into the countryside. Goodness, that man was altogether too pliable. What had happened to his resistance? I picked up my pace, angry. How would I get out of _this_ one?

And why did everyone keep conspiring against me?

* * *

><p>"It is only logical," Erik told me later, as we sat around the filthy table (in equally filthy chairs) in the tiny cottage that stank of rat droppings and mold. "Antoinette and I – and Francis and Nadir – agreed that you would be safer in the countryside. Besides, there is no reason to go back, seeing as our enemies now believe you have fled."<p>

"That is, actually, a good reason for going back," I said, steadfastly staring at the dirty wooden wall, and not at him. I was determined not to lose my temper. Yet. "If they think I'm gone, then they won't search for me in the Opera, and I can stay in your house. Also – and this is something everyone seems to have forgotten – the notes never said that if I left they would refrain from killing again. They _said_ that I _have_ to reveal myself. If I do so, no one else will die."

From the corner of my eye, I saw Nadir glance at Erik and mouth something. Erik shook his head very slightly.

I turned around, fixing them with a glare. "What are you two talking about?"

Nadir opened his mouth, then closed it as Erik glowered at him.

"You had better tell me," I said. "I _insist_."

"I think she has a point –" Nadir began, looking at Erik.

"I think it is none of your business," Erik said, his eyes narrowing. "Why don't you go check on the horses?"

Nadir shrugged. "Very well." He got up, crossed to the door, and left.

The door hinges creaked as the door closed; for a moment the whole apparatus wobbled as if it would fall. Nadir shot an apologetic look at us as he thrust the door back into place.

I thought, grimly, that this was possibly the worst place I had ever inhabited in my entire life.

* * *

><p>I stood up. "Erik, we are going to have a talk."<p>

"That was precisely what I was going to say," the Phantom said. It appeared he was attempting to be humorous. I ignored this.

"I absolutely _refuse_ to stay here. If you do not drive me back to the Opera, I will take one of the horses and ride back myself."

Argument Number One was now in play.

"I doubt you'd get to the horse," Erik said. "Not with Nadir and I here."

On to Argument Number Two.

"What exactly did you plan to do?" I asked. "Take me here, and have me stay for the rest of my life? Do you think that our enemies will stop looking for me? Do you think they haven't left someone at the Opera to kill again? Who will protect the workers if you are here?"

Erik stood and crossed to the decaying wall, stared out the grimy window. "The workers are not my concern."

"That is utter rubbish," I said. "The Opera is your home. The Opera is _my_ home. We cannot let anything happen to the workers."

"Antoinette told me you would say this."

"Of course she did," I snapped. "Madame Giry knows everything now, does she? Well, she doesn't. Erik, sit down. I have thought of a compromise."

"Does it involve staying here?"

"No."

"Then I do not want to hear it."

I stared at his back. "What did you say?"

Erik remained silent.

"Erik. Speak to me."

He tensed; I could see his hands flexing at his sides. "Irene… I love you, but I can't take you back there. Not when I know you won't stop to think about your actions."

"If you would listen to me, I'd show you I can!" I snapped.

Erik turned. His eyes were full of pain.

"Don't you understand why I am so afraid?" he said. "I don't want you to… to lose yourself in this _mess_. These people, whoever they are, will stop at nothing to hurt you. We can't give into their demands."

"Erik…"

We stared at each other. For a moment all I could see were his green eyes, tiny specks of gold flickering in their depths.

I loved him too much to hurt him.

"I agree. You're right. I won't reveal myself. Not without precautions. But that is not what I was going to say."

Erik drew a long, tremulous breath. He turned and paced to the wall, stood staring down at the stones, his dark head bent.

"What was it?"

The question was quiet.

"Well, I had a few ideas," I said. "We can decide together. But first we have to go back."

There was a silence. I bit my lip, and looked away, gazing out the window. Nadir was busy with the horses; if I knocked the table into Erik's path and sprinted through the door, it might be possible to wrench a set of reins from Nadir's hands without Erik interfering.

_Time for Plan B._

* * *

><p>But I didn't need to use it, for Erik had crossed the room to me.<p>

He took my face in his hands, bent his head to mine. "I'm sorry. This whole thing is not your fault. In your place…"

He sighed, and let out a shaky laugh - "… I think I would have probably tried to tell everyone who I was too."

"And I would not have let you," I told him, twisting away so that I could put my arms around his neck. "Antoinette and I would have teamed up to drop sedatives into your drinks and ride off with you in carriages."

Erik's eyes were ashamed. "I'm sorry."

"I forgive you," I said, going up on my tiptoes to kiss him. "I figured that you and Antoinette would try something like this. It's only plausible. Now stop backing away and let me kiss you."

After a few more kisses, Erik croaked, "What is your plan?"

"It involves revealing my true identity - sort of – but it also involves gunpowder, bribery, theft, traps, and spying, all of which are in your blood. And I won't be hurt or killed or caught, I promise."

Erik seemed to be thinking this over. He made a noncommittal noise in the back of his throat, then nodded, slowly. "I had thought of something like that, but Antoinette disagreed. If you can convince her-"

"I can. _Now_ can we go back?"

"Well…"

"Well?" I demanded.

"Yes."

* * *

><p><em>Reviews, anyone? Pretty pretty pretty please?<em>


	21. Chapter 21: Le Bâillement

_Alright, I take it back: any reviews would be wonderful. I haven't had any for ages..._

* * *

><p>Erik, Nadir, and I arrived back at the Opera House around lunchtime, only to find that the Count and Madame Giry had received a fresh set of threatening notes.<p>

* * *

><p>We found this out when she came downstairs – apparently she had arranged beforehand to meet with Nadir (as Erik would be in the forest with me) and make sure that the plan had gone well.<p>

I must admit, my annoyance at her meddling began to seep away after she entered the room to see Erik, Nadir, and I on the sofa, recuperating from our long ride back. Her shock at our return was disturbing.

"Irene!" She stood in the center of the room, her eyes wide, her hands clutching her skirts.

I looked at her, coolly. "Antoinette."

Nadir hastened to his feet, and sidled towards the door, muttering feeble excuses. "I must go change. I'm covered in dirt. The carriage was quite dirty. I'll… I'll be back soon."

I allowed him to escape. It was clear he hadn't really been part of the scheme.

Erik sighed, scowled, and got to his feet. "Antoinette, I could not do it."

"I can see that," Madame Giry snapped. "She would have been _safe_, Erik. _Safe!_ Not holed up under the Opera, concocting wild plans to reveal her 'true identity'."

Feeling ignored, I got to my own feet. "I wouldn't speak of 'wild plans' if I were you, Antoinette. This is the second time you've maneuvered me into a situation I'd rather not be in. Besides, your plan had large holes in it."

Antoinette clasped her hands together tightly. "How so?"

I took a deep breath and launched into my spiel. "Well, for one, who would protect the Opera workers if not Erik? And for another, did you really think I'd sit back and let everyone tell me what to do? I had several escape plans all ready; I would have been back here within the week."

"But Erik-"

"Erik would never lay a hand on me, you know that," I snapped. "He is a gentleman, and although he wants to keep me safe just as much as you do, it does not mean he will break his code of honor."

Antoinette crossed her arms, her eyebrows drawing together in a dark V. "It may have been a hasty plan, Irene, but I did – and _do_ – not want to see you killed over a misguided sense of self-sacrifice."

I glanced away, afraid that there were tears glimmering at the corners of her eyes.

"I know that, Antoinette. But Erik and I have talked about it, and we may have a solution. It's Tuesday; we have four days to plan it all out."

Madame Giry reached for the back of a chair. "You are really going to do it, aren't you?"

I nodded.

"Very well, then." She stood there for a minute more, gazing at her clasped hands. "Very well. If you must do so, I will help you."

* * *

><p>"Good," Erik said, in his typically blunt fashion, and started for the kitchen. "Since that is over, I think I will go get something to eat. Irene, what do you want for lunch?"<p>

"Anything," I said, "but soup."

* * *

><p>While waiting for my lunch (which was not soup, but baguettes and fruit), I listened to the sounds of Erik and Antoinette clanging things together in the kitchen. Madame Giry had insisted upon helping him make lunch.<p>

"It's the only thing I can do right now," she was telling him, "seeing as my three ballet girls have been shipped off to Meg's country home. We've been corresponding about the problems at the Opera House (well, nothing to do with Irene, only the most basic details), and she volunteered to take them. So I have nothing to do. Besides, you and Irene must be worn out from your long ride back."

I couldn't hear Erik's answer.

I sat up slowly and looked around at the peaceful setting of comfy chairs and rugs, the cheerful flickering of the fire in the hearth. The notes Antoinette and the Count had received lay on the table next to the sofa. I rose to my feet and went to pick them up, intending to throw them into the flames.

* * *

><p>Antoinette had already read them to us.<p>

Basically, if I continued to refuse to disclose my true identity – if I did not do so at the next performance – then not only would more Opera workers die, the Opera House itself would be susceptible to damage. Madame Giry suspected arson; the Count assumed the perpetrators meant to do something more along the lines of gunpowder.

As for Erik, he became quiet at this news, and said nothing at all. I had only stared mutely around, as if looking for someone to help me. When no miraculous rescuer appeared, bearing our salvation in hand, I had turned on my heel and left the living room.

Erik came after me.

"Irene," he said, following me down the hallway, "we've survived everything they've thrown at us so far. We can make it through this too."

"I am so _tired_ of this!" I flung back at him. "I want this to be over! I am so _sick_ of it all. If they would only confront us, we could fight them on equal terms! But no, it is guerrilla warfare; and so far we are losing. We are losing terribly."

"I know," Erik said, "I know that you are tired. I am tired too, Irene. And it is hard. But in the end… in the end we will be all right. You must hold that in your heart."

"You don't know that."

"I can hope, though, can't I? Even in the worst of times, there is always hope."

I had stopped once we were far enough away from the living room that Antoinette could not hear us. I turned to look at Erik, at his dear brown face and messy black hair, at his glittering green eyes.

He was right. We could still hope.

"But what will we do after I reveal myself? I cannot put Madame Giry or the Count in danger."

"We will leave."

His answer was so sure, so quick, that I had to stop and let it register before it actually hit me. _Leave. We will leave._

"But – the Opera – I thought-"

"You thought I would stay here forever?" Erik said. "You thought I'd never leave. Goodness. And here I thought you knew me."

"_You_ were the one who gave me that impression," I retorted. "Well, before you agreed to help me catch the Inspector."

I had been referring to the incident several months ago, when Erik and I had been on the rooftop of the Opera House, arguing over whether or not I should seek revenge. He had refused to come with me to capture Luke; now I knew that he had simply not wanted me to leave on such a wildly dangerous mission – perhaps he had assumed that my bond with him was great enough to keep me there with him. Of course, he hadn't been entirely sure of this – but it had all worked out in the end.

"I will leave with you afterwards," Erik said, stepping towards me, moving lithely, like a cat. "After you tell everyone your real name, you will descend via trapdoor into the depths of the Opera. I will come get you, and we will ride off into the night, with no one the wiser. And then… and then I suppose I will have to go buy a ring."

"Well," I said, tilting my face up towards his. "I like that idea. Where shall we honeymoon?"

"Oh, I've always liked Venice," Erik said, a flicker of a grin dashing across his lips. "They have gondolas, you know."

I laughed, and the answering echo of his merriment rang out through the hallway.

* * *

><p>Now I sat before the fire, holding Antoinette's and Francis' notes, and stared at them.<p>

According to the author, this was my final chance to redeem myself.

And I thought it likely that the policemen would eventually discover the secret passageways in the Opera House, considering the fact that they were still combing Paris in search of me. In fact, this very morning Antoinette had seen them walking up and down the corridor of my old room, rapping on the walls and frowning. Being Antoinette, she had stopped to question them.

Their response was: "We are following every lead, Madame. Kindly allow us to do our jobs."

Antoinette had left, with the sudden notion in her mind that someone in the Opera, besides the rest of S.C.O.W.L., knew about the secret passageways.

Erik reassured her that no one would be able to find the passageway in my old room, especially since he had sealed it securely.

"They would have to take a sledgehammer to the walls, and I doubt the Count would allow that," he had said.

* * *

><p>Francis, for his part, spent most of his time nowadays following the police around the Opera as they conducted their search.<p>

He suggested vague theories that perhaps I was in England, as I had "spoken of it _so _often, especially about that lovely big bell tower and those delightful manor houses," argued that they were wasting their time and disturbing his rehearsals; and when pressed for details on my personal life, would only say things such as:

"She was a very quiet person, she was. I never heard her say anything about anyone. Yes, Katelienne was a perfect angel, with a perfect temper, and a perfect hand for writing. She was perfectly silent about everything. Oh, how I miss her."

And then he would sigh pathetically and moan about how dirty their mud-covered boots were making his Opera.

Yes, the Count was quite capable in his dealings with the police.

* * *

><p>I dropped the notes into the fire, watching their white edges curl up into black, and sat down on the rug. The flames were so close that I could feel the skin around my eyes tightening in the heat, but I did not move.<p>

I was thinking.

If I had never sought Luke, had never followed him to the Opera and masqueraded as a writer, then he never would have died.

Because it was like this: I had wanted revenge. Luke had wanted to remain free.

And so we ended up on the rooftop of an old hotel, brandishing blades, and Luke had died on my sword.

Cooper had tipped over the edge, vanishing into the wind…

_But wait!_

I stopped in my thoughts, struck by something I hadn't considered before.

The Blackmailer had never made any mention of Cooper, none at all. The Blackmailer had to be personally connected with _Luke_, not with the Inspector – the Blackmailer, unlike I had previously thought, may not have had any connection with the Inspector at all.

Which meant that the Blackmailer was someone entirely unknown to us, and someone bent on destroying me like I had destroyed their… their… love? Their brother? Their relative? What connection did the Blackmailer have to Luke?

And the Blackmailer had to be very close to us – they had known the location of my old room, and I assumed they had been the one to ransack my new room. They probably had been living in the Opera House at the very moment.

All this time I had been focusing on the outside of the Opera and searching for the Inspector, when I should have been focused on the interior.

"What are you thinking about?"

"I was wrong, Erik," I said, getting up and going to him. "I was wrong about the Inspector – he's not involved in any of this. The Blackmailer is someone who knew Luke personally; you told me that at the very beginning; and he must be living in the Opera. Who else knew where my room was? Only the Opera workers."

"Well, yes, I had figured that," Erik said, and handed me the plate, frowning. "But from the research I've been doing, no one new has come to work at the Opera for more than two years. That was long before you arrived, Irene."

I took a bite of bread, shaking my head as I chewed. "But that's impossible. Someone has to have applied for a job just before the notes started arriving."

"Perhaps they've been here all along," Madame Giry said. She was leaning against the doorframe, her hands folded in front of her. "Hiding in plain sight. Maybe they finally decided that they needed to… dispose of you."

"That makes no sense," I said, speaking through a mouthful of food.

Antoinette raised her eyebrows at my flagrant disregard for manners.

I blushed. "Oh. Excuse me."

Swallowing, I continued, "If they had been here all along, they would have helped Luke earlier. The man was at wits' end, remember? He was trying to kill himself; he was completely without friends. And when we kidnapped him, no one…"

"No one what?" Erik said impatiently, when I did not continue. "What?"

"Wait," I said, holding up a hand. "Just wait. I thought of something."

Erik took a piece of cheese off my plate and ate it, his eyes on my face. I closed my eyes and tried to concentrate.

Madame Giry sighed. "Irene, please, the suspense is too much."

I opened my eyes.

"Erik, do you remember how thick that hidden door was in Luke's room? How difficult it was to open, with that heavy lever? And you had drugged him, given him a large dose of sedatives. I could never understand how he had managed to open the door and attack me in his condition. What if someone, someone skilled in medicines – and poisons – had been there to help him?"

"You're saying someone else was in the secret passageway?" Erik said, frowning dangerously. "But who would know about passageways besides us? And how would I fail to notice them?"

"Because you assumed the signs of use were from _me_," I said. "You knew _I _knew about your passageways; you thought - "

Antoinette cut me off with an upraised hand. "You cannot be saying that there has been someone here all along, can you?"

"Yes," I said. "I am. And also, who would be better equipped to supply a man with strychnine than a person who often dealt with such things? Didn't you find it odd that Luke had such a volatile substance in his possession? Who would have given it to him but the Poisoner?"

"The Poisoner and the Blackmailer are one and the same?" Erik's expression was thoughtful. "But if that is true, then how was he or she able to poison people all over Paris while he – or _she_, how I hate to have to be so precise – was living here? It seems slightly farfetched."

I shook my head. "I don't know. Maybe he has someone who's very good at slipping poison into people's drinks?"

"They would have to be superb in order to fool Nadir," Erik replied, beginning to pace the floor. "He's not one to miss things."

Antoinette sat down on the couch. She did not seem convinced. "I don't know, Irene."

"But surely Luke knew there was a passageway in his room," I said, going back to my previous point. "I mean, he wasn't _that_ stupid."

Madame Giry stared at me; Erik looked as though he might laugh.

I backtracked. "All right, never mind, maybe he was. He was not the brightest man of my acquaintance."

"Certainly not," Erik said, hurt. "That would be me."

"Or me," said Nadir, who had just entered the room.

"We are eating lunch," Antoinette informed him (though she was not). "Sit down; I'll get your food." She went into the kitchen, and returned moments later bearing a plate of bread, cheese, and fruit.

* * *

><p>When we were all eating, Madame Giry put her hands on her hips and surveyed the lot of us.<p>

"That is much better," she declared. "Now, it is necessary that I go visit the Count and help him with the police, so I won't be back until tomorrow morning. Irene, I insist that you get some real sleep tonight. Erik, the same goes for you. Nadir, you are the only sensible one here, so I do not need to tell you to do so. Goodnight."

She picked up her cloak from the back of a chair – we were all chewing, so none of us could answer her – looked at us one more time, and nodded briskly to herself.

"Goobnigmb," Erik managed, through a rather large bite of cheese.

Nadir waved.

I smiled, a bit weakly. _Nadir the most sensible of us? Piffle. _

Antoinette lifted her chin, smiled at us, frowned at Erik's bad manners, and swept out of the room. Her shoes clicked away down the hall, growing softer, and then we heard the outside door open and close.

Erik swallowed. "Does she always have to leave in such a dramatic fashion?"

This was so ironic, considering Erik's flair for dramatic entrances and departures, that I could only stare at him. Nadir guffawed, choked on a bite of bread, and burst into a bout of coughing. Erik sighed in annoyance and put his plate down to go pound him on the back.

"I really don't know why the two of you always act so oddly," was his complaint.

Nadir and I found it difficult to remain silent after this statement, but, somehow, we did.

* * *

><p>The day passed in a blur: Nadir played chess with me; Erik composed a mad piece on the organ that reminded me of a train crashing (I did not tell him this; I supposed this new composition was due to the emotional turmoil we had been experiencing); and I thought hard.<p>

Very hard.

And due to my intensive thoughts about matters other than chess, I lost every single game.

Afterwards, we ate dinner – well, we ate more bread and cheese and fruit, seeing as this was all Erik had left in his pantry – and Nadir regaled us with wild stories of his exploits in Persia. Erik, to my surprise, loosened up enough to laugh along with me at some of Nadir's more unlikely tales.

* * *

><p>When Nadir went to bed around ten, Erik and I retired to the living room.<p>

We sat on the couch, simply basking in the silence and peace, both of us gazing into the warmth of the fire and breathing slowly. Wednesday had curled up on my lap; her soft head rested on my hand.

I yawned.

Erik said, sleepily: "Aren't you tired? You should go to bed."

"As should you," I told him, leaning my head on his shoulder. "You must be just as tired as I am."

"I might be," Erik said, and brushed his lips across my hair in a light kiss. "But maybe not. I think I can stay awake for a few – minutes – longer..."

He yawned. "Perhaps not."

"Go to bed then, you oaf," I said, yawning again, in a great gaping search for air to fill my weary lungs. "But I'm not going to move, I'm too tired."

"We can lean on each other for support as we droop down the hallway," Erik suggested, "staggering step after step towards our distant rooms."

"That would be implausible," I said. "Seeing as you'd probably knock me over if you leaned on me."

In response to this magnificent rebuttal, Erik yawned.

I yawned.

Wednesday yawned.

* * *

><p>It was inevitable, then, that none of us ever managed to make it to our rooms.<p>

At least the couch was comfortable.


	22. Chapter 22: Les Dons et Le Deuil

_I'd appreciate reviews, as it's been a little quiet around here lately... Anyway, thank you all for reading. :)_

_Enjoy this chapter!_

* * *

><p>The next morning, we gathered around the kitchen table to discuss our plan.<p>

Well, most of us were gathered around the table: Erik was frying bacon (growling at it as it tried to spit hot grease in his direction); bacon that the Count had bought early this morning. Madame Giry was still upstairs, presumably asleep; only Francis and Nadir and I were seated.

The Count was sitting next to me, heavy purple indentations under his eyes. He seemed exhausted.

"It's nice to see you again," I told him, trying to cheer him up.

He tried to smile, but failed.

I blinked, frowned, and blurted, "Er… are you alright?"

"I'm fine," Francis said, flatly.

He sighed. "I'm hoping you have thought of a decent plan. I am tired of trying to send the police off on wild goose chases. Did you know that they nearly found the passageway behind the prima donna portrait yesterday?"

"How did you convince them to leave?" Erik inquired, sounding bored. I shot him a look, but he didn't see it, as he was fixated on the bacon. He poked gingerly at the strips of meat with his fork.

The grease popped loudly – he leapt backwards and snarled, "_Stop_ that!"

Nadir stifled a yawn. His eyes, glittering with amusement, darted to mine. He had chosen the chair nearest the door – perhaps he thought Erik might lose his temper completely and light the bacon on fire, and so was prepared to dash out when this occurred.

Francis sighed again. "I locked my office door and took them to the roof. I told them Irene went up there often, so they were happy enough to poke around up there for a few hours. When they came back, it was time for them to take a break. One of them mentioned that they thought the Opera House search was nearly over."

"Thank goodness," I said. "Erik, you are going to burn yourself. Let me do that."

"I'm perfectly capable of frying bacon," Erik snarled, stabbing at the meat with a vengeance. This was a misstatement - as I could see grey smoke beginning to coil around the pan - but he seemed to have rooted himself to the floor, so I decided to let him be.

Nadir yawned. "Where is Madame Giry?"

"I don't know," Francis said. "I didn't see her this morning." He turned his tired eyes on me. "Irene, when are you going to tell us your plan?"

"Actually, it is not entirely _my_ plan," I clarified. "It is also Erik's, and we haven't figured out all the details yet. I thought you would want to have breakfast first."

"I'm not hungry," said the Count.

"_I_ am, so we are going to eat. Kindly refrain from talking about the plan until we are done with breakfast, or you will be forcibly removed from the kitchen," Erik said coldly, effectively ending the conversation with one of his glares.

The bacon popped again – he growled and stabbed at it with a fork. "I _hate_ grease."

Nadir and I raised our eyebrows at each other.

The Count scowled petulantly at his hands.

* * *

><p>When Madame Giry arrived, bearing packages, we were eating bacon and eggs, and frowning at each other. Actually, Erik was frowning at Nadir, due to his friend's smirks – which were due to the bacon, which was slightly overcooked. I continued to crunch away on mine, seeing as this was the only breakfast I would be likely to eat today, as there was not much food left in Erik's kitchen.<p>

"What is that _smell_?" Antoinette asked as she entered, flapping her free hand in front of her face. "Did you burn something, Erik?"

"No," Erik growled, shoveling bacon into his mouth.

Antoinette pursed her lips. "Alright, then, no need to snap." She set a large box down in the center of the table – the Count yelped and scooted his plate out of the way just in time.

I looked up in surprise. Nadir stopped smiling at Erik and looked up too. "What's that?"

"Presents," Madame Giry announced. "We did not celebrate Christmas, so we are going to today."

"We are?" the Count said. "But what about the plan?"

Erik fixed Francis with a dark, evil stare. "We are going to celebrate Christmas. Or perhaps you'd rather spend the day shooing away policemen."

The Count admitted that he did not want to do so, and I got up from the table (giving up on the blackened bacon) and said:

"Antoinette, my presents are upstairs. Maybe you'd like to come get them with me?"

"Oh?" said Antoinette.

"What?" said the Count.

"Definitely not," said Erik. "You're staying here. Or had you forgotten that the entire Parisian police force is searching for you?"

* * *

><p>After fifteen long minutes of discussion, during which I employed several superb arguments, Madame Giry convinced Erik to allow me upstairs, upon the condition that he come with me.<p>

"I am sure you can keep an eye on Irene," she informed him. "Especially with all those secret passageways at your disposal, and your particularly fine eyesight."

Erik raised one eyebrow. "Irene is harder to keep track of than most people." He glanced sideways at me, one side of his mouth curling upwards.

I gave him my most innocuous smile. "I'll be very good."

This was something he couldn't resist. He sighed, smiled faintly, and looked away. "Fine, then. But this better not take all morning. I have things to do."

"What, pray tell?" I inquired. "Opening presents? Scowling? Nothing important, I'm sure."

* * *

><p>Erik and I bantered genially on the way up to the surface, tossing quips out into the air, and laughing at each other's perceived wit, but when we reached the passageways that crossed dangerously close to the practice rooms, the auditorium, and the dressing rooms, we fell silent.<p>

We emerged backstage (under Erik's direction), tumbling out of a hidden trapdoor into a mess of old costumes: a rat scurried past in the dark, its grimy whiskers sniffing for an instant in our direction.

"Why are we here?" I whispered, peering around a barrel.

"I thought I heard a familiar voice," Erik whispered back, from his position besides me. "Someone's onstage." He straightened and crept forward, his footsteps silent. "Come; let's go see who it is."

* * *

><p>Today was Rose's funeral; rehearsals had been called off so that the Opera workers could attend, and we both knew that it was odd for someone to have remained here. Rose had been well-liked.<p>

I followed Erik through the grey shadows, curiosity burning fiercely within me, and felt for the ever-present knife secreted within my sleeve. Yes, it was here – and Erik had stopped.

He had found a place from which he could see the stage; hidden behind twin stacks of barrels, their surfaces littered with tiaras, fake swords, a lace shawl. I slid up next to him, and my eyes went to the gleaming brown boards of the lit stage, slipped over a tangle of props, and came to rest upon a pair of black boots.

They were highly shined, obviously well-made, and as I looked higher, I discerned that their owner was Andre Roquefort. He appeared to be holding something at his side, but it was hidden by the line of his body. He rocked back on his heels, then forward, like a broken toy.

A strangled cry burst from his lips, breaking the almost-silence with a noise of sheer pain.

I flinched.

Andre sank to his knees, dropping the thing – oh, it was a book – on the stage, and stretched out his hands towards the empty, faceless seats. His head was bent; the muscles under the heavy black coat writhed. A mass of gritty, sickening sobs broke from his lips.

I looked down, shaken, as a horrible rush of pity and sadness and guilt swept over me. Erik turned away.

We left.

* * *

><p>"Don't come in," I told Erik, when we had reached my room. "I never managed to wrap the presents."<p>

"Where did you hide them?" he asked, the playful tone from earlier gone.

Both of us had sobered considerably after our encounter with Andre.

"Under the floorboards beneath the bed," I said, kneeling down to find the crack in the wood that marked my hiding place. "I think they're still here, but I could be wrong. _There_ we go."

I had got my fingers under the wood, and now I pried it up, revealing a foot-long empty space underneath. Reaching in carefully, I drew out a black bag. It was heavy, but I opened it to make certain. Yes, they were all here.

As I rose to my feet, kicking the board back into place, I remarked, "It was lucky that I got an extra present – I didn't know Nadir would be here too."

Erik nodded from his place in the hidden doorway. "Anything else?"

"Well…" I glanced around the room, shrugging at the gathered dust upon my once-cherished, now-ruined belongings, and shook my head. "No. We can leave."

The Phantom stepped aside, allowing me to enter the passageway. "Very well."

* * *

><p>Antoinette, the Count, and Nadir were gathered in the living room, waiting for us, when we arrived. It was warmer in Erik's house than in the passageways; I let out a sigh of thankfulness and took off my cloak.<p>

"Mine aren't wrapped," I said, setting my bag down on the table.

"It doesn't matter, dear," Antoinette said, rising from the couch. "Neither are Nadir's."

I was surprised, and said so. "You didn't have to buy us presents, Nadir. I mean, you can if you want to, but you didn't have to - "

Nadir waved a careless hand and smiled. "I wanted to. They aren't much, but I had bought something for Erik earlier, so…"

Erik, who had vanished down the hallway in search of his own gifts, reappeared in the doorway. He seemed uncertain, standing there with his arms full of packages, shifting from foot to foot, so I smiled brightly at him.

"Since we're all here now, shall we begin?" said Antoinette.

Erik swallowed hard, and came in.

* * *

><p>The present-opening took much of the morning to finish. When it was over, I was the proud new owner of a book of Latin phrases (from Erik, so I could decipher his occasional delving into obscure fictions), a lovely ivory gown from Antoinette; a fine ostrich quill and new journal from the Count, and a thin vial of gleaming purple liquid from Nadir.<p>

I held it up, watching it glimmer with streaks of faint blue light, and asked, "What is this? It can't be ink."

Nadir looked up from Erik's gift to him, Machiavelli's _The Prince_, and said, "It's cobalt chloride. Or, as people generally call things like it, invisible ink."

"How do you detect it?" said Erik, putting down Antoinette's gift of two new shirts. "By light or heat or chemicals?"

"Heat," Nadir said. "Here, let me show you." He got up. "May I borrow some paper and a pen? And a glass of water?"

I handed him the vial and my new quill, then got to my feet and went across the rugs to Erik's desk. "Here you go."

Erik went and got the water.

Nadir sat down next to the table, took the paper, and spread it out flat. He uncapped the vial, dipped the quill into it, and withdrew it, letting a drop of dark purple fall into the glass of water Erik had brought.

The Count got up, curious, and stepped close.

We watched as the thick color fell, spreading and twisting into loops of purply black, and finally vanishing completely.

"You must dilute the solution with water," Nadir explained. "But only with a few tablespoons, as in this glass. Now, I will dip the quill into the water."

He lifted the quill from the water, put it to the paper, frowned, and wrote: _Invisible Ink._

For a moment, the words were visible on the paper, shining very faintly with the clear aura of water… and then they were gone.

Erik leaned forward. "Is the paper warped?"

Nadir shook his head. "No. And it won't be, if you use a small amount of water; a very small amount."

He lifted the paper in both hands and held it up so that we could all see it.

I squinted, but I could see nothing, not even the tell-tale crease of watermarks. "It worked."

"But can you see it again?" Erik asked. "Let me get a candle."

He returned within seconds with a candle, and Nadir handed him the paper. "Don't light it on fire."

Erik looked disgusted. "I won't."

He held the candle to the paper, letting the flame billow centimeters away from the fragile white page. I held my breath.

The words, miraculously, reappeared.

_Invisible Ink._

"Amazing," Erik breathed. The candle flame trembled.

"Thank you, Nadir," I said, taking the paper from Erik before it caught on fire. "I shall cherish it."

Nadir put his hands behind his back and blushed.

The Count, satisfied, smiled at us and sat back down to examine his gifts.

"An interesting invention," Antoinette commented, also taking her seat. "Where did you find it, Nadir?"

Nadir smiled. "That would be telling. I'm afraid I can't disclose my sources; Erik would buy them out within a week."

It was true; Erik had developed the intensely focused stare of a convert. He reached for the vial, but I caught his hand.

"No, no, that's mine. Nadir got you a nice set of knives; go play with those instead. I'll be using this myself."

Erik turned his pitiable, grief-stricken eyes on me.

I blinked. "Oh, alright. We can share it. But I get to use it first."

Nadir cleared his throat. "I thought it would come to this. Don't worry, Irene, I bought two. Would you like one, Erik?"

It was amusing to watch Erik's expression change from woe to exhilaration – he nodded feverishly, and Nadir pulled a second vial out of his pocket.

"Don't waste it on experiments, now," he cautioned his friend as he handed it over. "I bought it so that you and Irene can communicate with each other, now that she's… well, I bought it so it would be used carefully. I doubt I'll ever get my hands on more of the stuff."

Erik turned the vial over in his hands, holding the invisible ink like a fragile, newborn child. I doubted he had heard a word of Nadir's explanation. "Thank you."

* * *

><p>A few moments later, Antoinette got to her feet, having tucked her new things away into her bag. "I think we should adjourn, Erik, Irene. The Count and I have to go back upstairs – Rose's funeral will be starting soon."<p>

Francis took a firm grip on his presents (a book from me, a pocket watch from Nadir, new shirts from Antoinette, and a letter opener from Erik), and heaved himself to his feet. "I suppose Antoinette is correct; we must go. But the plan – when will we hear about the plan?"

Erik and I exchanged glances. "Perhaps tonight?"

The Count nodded. "Shall we come down here?"

"What time?" said Erik.

"Eight," Antoinette said, making up her mind. "The funeral will be over by seven. Thank you, Nadir, and Erik, and Irene. I adore my gifts – especially the perfume, Irene. I will see you all tonight. I expect you to have formulated a sort of plan by then, at least."

We reassured her that we would, and after thanking us, Francis followed her from the room.

* * *

><p>Nadir promptly sat back down and opened his book.<p>

I was about to do the same with my book, but Erik took hold of my arm and pulled me towards the door. "We'll be back for lunch, Nadir," he said.

"Hmm," said Nadir, who wasn't listening. He turned a page.

* * *

><p>Erik shut the door and looked down at me. "I haven't finished my gift-giving yet."<p>

"Of course," I said. "Neither have I. Would you like to get your gift first, or should I receive mine?"

The Phantom considered for a moment. "You can give me mine first."

"But you'll be distracted for the rest of the day," I warned him. "It's that sort of gift."

"Very well, if you insist," Erik sighed. "Onward, then."

* * *

><p>We emerged onto the shore, with the heaps and stacks of various belongings rising up all around us, and Erik stepped forward, taking me with him.<p>

"Where are we going?" I inquired.

"Oh, nowhere," Erik said. "Just to here."

He pushed aside a curtain, and we entered a sort of alcove, created by irregular walls of old books and statues. In the center of the small room was an easel, covered with a white cloth.

Erik took a deep breath (perhaps he was nervous) and pulled the cloth away.

I caught my breath.

It was the view from the roof of the Opera at sunset. Reds and golds and pinks coalesced around the gold sun, the burning clouds around it streaming together across the purple-blue sky. Past the roof's railing, below the roof, was a gleaming sea of buildings, stretching out into the horizon like fallen stars. An angel statue stood on the right in the foreground, its uplifted face reflecting the sun's brilliance. In the bottom left corner was Erik's signature: a simple _E_ encircled by a complicated swirl.

I went closer, amazed by the painting's beauty.

"There's a clock tower on the left," Erik said, softly. "If you look closely, you can make out the time."

"6:23," I said. "Erik, this is beautiful. How long did it take you?"

He laughed. "Months. I couldn't decide what to paint. So I thought about where you liked to go the most, and I decided that you would like to have a painting of the roof. Besides, if you leave, you'll always have a piece of the Opera with you."

"Thank you," I told him, and meant it. "I will treasure it always."

* * *

><p>My present to him was the first copy of my book. I took the package out of my desk drawer, and, rather self-consciously, handed it over.<p>

Erik took it with the air of one receiving a rare and priceless artifact. "Is this-?"

"Yes, it's my book," I said, watching him peel off the wrapping. "It was published last week, during all the turmoil, so I nearly forgot all about it. Thankfully, I had already gotten this one. It's the first one printed."

"Autographed by the author herself," Erik observed, laughing quietly as he opened it. "How lovely." He smiled at me (I smiled back, a little nervous now), and he looked down to turn the first page.

"Oh."

He stood there, staring at the book, and I grinned.

The printed inscription, the one that was to be read by hundreds of people, read:

_For Erik, my love._


	23. Chapter 23: La Revanche

_Thank you for your lovely reviews everyone! This is a monumental chapter, so please read it carefully!_

_Enjoy!_

* * *

><p>The week went by in a flash, and suddenly –<p>

It was Saturday.

The Count stood at the back of the practice room, waiting for everyone to stop talking and look at him, and thought: _I cannot believe this is happening._

He had called a meeting – a final meeting – and all the Opera workers were gathered in the orchestra's practice room in anticipation of what he was about to say. He thought they had probably figured out most of his speech; that they knew the gist of what he would tell them. It wouldn't have been too difficult to ascertain, seeing as there had been rumors about the Opera closing for quite some time.

Ah, well. He had to get it over with anyway. At the very least, this decision would save lives. At the most, it would eventually allow the Opera to reopen.

That is, if the Phantom's and Irene's plan was to be relied on. He hoped it was.

He cleared his throat loudly, and the ninety-six heads of the remaining performers, stagehands, musicians, and workers turned towards him. "May I have your attention?"

Perhaps the question had been unnecessary. The room was silent.

"As all of you know," the Count said, "we are under duress. That is to say, we, as a whole, have been blackmailed and threatened and treated with immense cruelty. And we have lost one of our own."

A few soft whispers ran through the room. Rose's name echoed gently off the walls.

"Yes, we have lost Rose. And originally we planned to remain and fight for our place here in the Opera, but I have come to the decision that I cannot allow any of you to lose your lives over something as petty as a show. Tonight will be our final performance. Afterwards, I will pay each of you your salaries, and the Opera will be closed."

He thought he could see relief in some of their eyes.

"The police will escort all of you home after tonight. I ask that you leave through the backstage entrances, not through the front, and that you go safely. Thank you, all of you, for your hard work and dedication. I owe you my gratitude."

He nodded at Madame Giry, and as she took his place, he went through the crowd and out of the room.

* * *

><p>Erik and I looked at each other from behind the wall of the practice room.<p>

"Well… he's more of an orator than I thought."

"I agree," I said, smiling. "And I think it went well, considering the general calmness of the workers. So now we should go back downstairs and finalize everything. Tonight must go well, or…"

I hesitated. There were so many things that could go wrong if it did not.

"We do not need to speculate on what could happen; we should concentrate on what _is_ happening," Erik said, his calm voice cutting through my troubled thoughts. "Let's go."

* * *

><p>An hour later, downstairs in the living room, Antoinette held up the morning's newspaper. Emblazoned across the front was a screaming headline:<p>

MISSING SUSPECT IN MURDER CASE PUBLISHES BOOK:

THE PUBLIC IS ASTONISHED

"Are they astonished about the book itself, or just about me?" I asked, from my place in Erik's armchair.

Erik leaned against the back of the chair behind me; I could feel his smile on the back of my head. (He had been inordinately pleased about the inscription in the book, so much so that he had been struck speechless and could only find enough strength to kiss me.)

"From what the article says, both," Madame Giry said, flipping the paper over so she could read it. "Let's see… They're curious about how you managed to publish a book while on the run… They hope the police catch you… They want to know who your mysterious publisher is…"

"They don't know who it is?" asked Nadir. "How did you manage to keep that out of the press, Irene?"

"Oh, my publisher has his ways," I said, beginning to bounce up and down with anticipation. "He probably bribed the journalist or something. But what about the _book_?"

"According to this article," Antoinette continued, grinning hugely, "your book is 'hilarious, exhilarating, and shocking in turns.' It 'creates a fascinating cloud of mystique around the already famous Paris Opera,' and 'the writing is crisp, inspired, and enchanting.' Basically, they adore it."

"They like it!" I sprang out of the chair and snatched the newspaper from her. "They like it! I can't believe it! Look, it says sales are up all over the country!"

"You'll be rich," Erik said, reading over my shoulder. "And look – they mention me!"

" 'The Opera Ghost – who could he be?' " I read. " 'A magician, a phantom, a shade? Read Mademoiselle Laurent's book and discover the many disguises of the Phantom! Perhaps you will come to one conclusion, while your friends come to another – the interpretations are many, and no one really knows the truth…' "

I let the paper fall onto the floor and collapsed into the chair, my heart expanding with joy. They loved it! People were going to buy it! It was so wonderful!

"But how are you going to receive your money if you're in hiding?" asked the Count. "I mean, there is really no way to get it to you…"

I felt my happiness diminish slightly. He had a point. How was I going to receive the proceeds from my book if my publisher couldn't find me?

"I'll have to go see him, I suppose," I said, slowly. "I never thought I'd be entombed down here while my book was selling. Actually, I never thought I'd sell the thing in the first place."

" 'Shocking interview from ballet instructor,' " read Madame Giry, who had picked up the paper again, " 'in which she spills all.' Honestly, did they even read the book? I said nothing 'shocking'!"

As I stared at her, wondering what to say, Erik patted the top of my head. I looked up. "I'll make sure your funds get to you, Irene. I have several new disguises I've been working on, and I want to see how well they work."

"What sort of disguises, Erik?" inquired Nadir, who was trying to read over Madame Giry's shoulder (she kept holding the paper farther and farther away, so that he couldn't). "I'm curious."

" 'And to whom is the mysterious inscription referring?' " read Antoinette, holding the paper so far to the right that Nadir gave up and came to stand next to me. " 'Is it yet another lover to which death will soon –' Oh, sorry. Never mind. Let me find something happier to read."

"Goodness," said Francis, in a shocked tone. "I cannot believe they think that."

"I _am_ a suspected murderess," I pointed out. "But yes, that was rather ill-put. Who is the journalist?"

"A Monsieur Armand Le Valier. He's rather wordy, isn't it? But he liked the book, and from what I read in the other newspapers, it is very popular."

"The other newspapers?"

"Oh," said Antoinette, blushing, "just a few other papers. Here, do you want to read them?"

She tugged her bag out from under the table and pulled a thick stack of newspapers out of it. I laughed. "You're so kind, Antoinette. I should have known you'd be following my book in the news."

"Well, it _is_ a very good book," she said, spreading the other papers out over the table (there were six). "And thank you for my copy. I feel very honored to have been part of the writing process."

Now it was my turn to blush. "Oh, you're welcome. I'd never have managed to write it without you, you know. Or without Francis, or Erik. If things had turned out badly last year, I don't think I'd be here right now."

I had given them all autographed copies for Christmas.

The Count grinned at me and held his up. "I've gotten to Chapter Three already. I had no idea the workers had built such a detailed myth around the Phantom. I mean, they even have at least ten different names for you!"

"Well, you _should_ know," said Erik, rudely. "They talk about it all the time."

While Antoinette fixed Erik with a motherly glare (and the Count stared at the floor), I collected my thoughts and decided on my next course of action.

"Francis, I'm going to donate at least half of my book funds to the Opera."

The Count whipped his head up to stare at me. "But it's closing," he said.

"I know," I began.

"She knows," Erik said.

I poked him to make him quiet. "I know it is closing. But after all of this blows over – after we manage to catch the criminals, we will reopen. And when that happens, I will donate to support the Opera. It will be the least I can do, seeing as I'll be living here with Erik."

Nadir, who had been reading the newspaper now that Antoinette had put it down, looked up. "You'll be living here permanently? But what about sunshine? What about trees? Don't you want to live aboveground?"

"Well, we will be honeymooning in Venice," I said, pleased that he had asked. "There is rather a lot of nature, and lovely architecture, and other aboveground attractions there. And after we get done with that-"

"Venice?" Antoinette interrupted. "How lovely! When do you plan to have the wedding?"

Erik glanced at me – I looked back at him. He frowned.

"We don't know yet."

"You have to have it in Paris," the Count said. "We want to come."

Erik scowled at him.

"Yes, of course you do," Madame Giry said. "Unless… unless you want to invite your family? Then you should have it near your home."

I shook my head. "No, they're off in England, and I'd rather not. You know I'm not very close to them. But of course we will invite all of you."

"Mmhmm," said Erik, rather reluctantly. "But we think it should be a private wedding. Only a few people, and not a lot of frills. I despise frills."

"But what does Irene think?" said Antoinette. "And you haven't proposed yet, have you, Erik?"

The Phantom suddenly seemed sheepish. "No… not yet…"

"We'll get to that later," I said, rescuing him. "I'm sure he will. Anyway, let's go back to discussing the plan. Where were we?"

With a satisfied sigh, Nadir put down the newspaper and leaned back on the sofa cushions. "We were talking about your book, actually. But it would be nice to go over the plan one final time."

Everyone else nodded.

I got up and went to Erik's desk to take out the various lists and diagrams we had drawn up. The S.C.O.W.L. members sat up straight to recite their oaths, as we now did before every meeting. Well, before the last two meetings, because we had only just started this tradition.

Yes, we had an oath. I had written it myself.

"I fervently swear," I began, turning back around, "to keep the members of S.C.O.W.L. as safe and as secret as they can be, and to protect any private information revealed to me thereof within any of their meetings, and to uphold this oath insofar as I am alive."

Everyone else had joined in, even Erik, although he seemed to be mouthing the words. I frowned at him. He gave a great sigh and began actually speaking.

"I do not swear to give up my life on behalf of S.C.O.W.L.; nay, only to protect it with my words and actions, and to do so without putting myself in imminent peril. I will remember the reasons for which this group was formed, and I will stand united with its members, until the day in which it is dissolved."

* * *

><p>It was night.<p>

I stood behind the curtain, my hands clenched in the fabric of my skirts, a line of sweat dripping down my back. Erik's fingers were closed around the top of my shoulder; he stood solidly behind me. He was humming under his breath. The gentle undercurrent of warm sound thrummed in my ears.

Or perhaps that was my heartbeat, thumping wildly with anticipation and fear, but I couldn't tell.

The orchestra played on, the music driving me mad with its frantic beat as it built up to completion of the final act, the notes pulling at me like little lines attached to hooks in my skin. I dug my nails into my palms, fighting the urge to run, and rehearsed my speech in my head.

Yes, I had it right. No, I would not forget it. And if I did, I would simply make up another one on the spot. I could do that. Probably.

Erik said, quietly, "It's going to be alright."

I leaned back into him, trusting that he would hold me up, and tried to figure out how to agree. I didn't think it would be alright. Something always went wrong at these sorts of things.

"Really," he said. "We have our plans. Trust me."

"I do," I said, very quietly. "It's not you I don't trust, it's the plan. Are you sure we haven't forgotten anything?"

"Weapons were confiscated at the entrances by the Count," he whispered. "Performers will be sent away immediately after the performance's completion, with help from Antoinette. Nadir is on the rafters watching the stagehands, ready to release the sedatives if anything happens, and you are back here with me. Where you are supposed to be, as am I."

"The policemen…"

"We could not shut them out, you know that. They would have protested, and come to dangerous conclusions about the Count. It was very lucky that they agreed to be disarmed at the entrance – although they really had no choice in the matter."

The Count had politely requested each and every weapon to be handed over at the Opera House's entrances. If anyone refused, or if it was likely that they had concealed weapons on their persons, the Count's newly hired strongman (courtesy of a traveling circus) took care of them. His name was Thrash. It fit him well.

So the audience was free of weapons, and the auditorium was rigged with traps. Erik had done his part thoroughly. So thoroughly, in fact, that I was more than a little hesitant about going onstage.

"The trapdoor will work, won't it?" I whispered. "I mean, if I step out there and fall straight through the boards…"

"It will work; I promise. I wouldn't build a faulty trapdoor."

The music rose again, streaming up like so many colored balloons, and exploded into the ending chords, shaking the stage with the sounds, and I knew the performance was over. Erik squeezed my shoulder.

"Don't be afraid."

The applause went on for what seemed like ages, the noise rippling through the whole auditorium. I felt my legs begin to shake. My stomach churned madly, spinning like an internal top. I prayed that I wouldn't vomit.

Antoinette slipped backstage, dressed entirely in black, and whispered, "Good luck, Irene. I'll see you very soon."

She was to escort the workers back behind the Opera to their carriages; even now they began to stream into the darkness of the backstage, carrying thrown flowers from the audience and looking pale.

Erik and I slipped back into the shadows, hiding ourselves from view, and the audience continued to clap. They probably assumed there would be another set of bows, but this was not to be.

The orchestra members filed backstage, followed by a group of stagehands. Erik counted them under his breath; when he reached ninety-six, we both relaxed, but only a little. They were all accounted for.

As the performers, stagehands, singers, musicians, and workers moved away through the maze of props and boxes, Erik tapped my shoulder, and I turned to him.

He brushed my forehead with a feather-light kiss, his emerald eyes dark in the gloom. I tilted my head up to claim his lips.

When we parted, I caught his hands in mine. "If anything happens, Erik, know that I love you."

"And I, you," he said, but he was troubled, I could see it in his face.

"Irene?" whispered the Count, pulling the curtains aside. "We're up."

"Goodbye, my love," I told Erik. "I will come back to you."

"Godspeed," he whispered.

* * *

><p>I slipped through the curtains after the Count, feeling a few wisps of hair fall gently around my face as the heavy fabric mussed my bun, and stepped into blinding light.<p>

To the audience, it must have looked as if I was confused – I stepped slightly backwards, startled by the brilliance. The Count took hold of my arm, steering me to the center of the stage. He was sweating; I could feel it in the warm dampness of his hand.

After blinking hard several times, I made out the faces of the audience. There were literally hundreds of them, peering at me through opera glasses, their features obscured by distance. I fought to stop my legs from trembling.

Francis let go of my arm, smiled at me, and looked at the audience.

"May I introduce you to the Opera Garnier's esteemed writer," he said, politely. His voice was loud, but not too loud. He seemed at ease on the wooden boards of the stage.

I wondered how he was doing it. I did not feel comfortable; I felt like a broken doll that would topple over at any moment.

There was muffled applause, and I stepped forward. The audience's bewilderment would last only a few seconds.

But before I spoke, I glanced down at the boards – yes, that was the tiny X marking the spot where I was supposed to stand. I looked back up at the audience, at their pink hands flashing in the grey dimness of the seats, took a deep breath, and said:

"As most of you know, there have been death threats directed at the members and guests of the Opera House."

The clapping slowed; stopped. I paused – my mind had gone blank, completely blank, and this was terrifying.

But the words suddenly fell into place; thankfully, because a policeman was extricating himself from his seat in the third row, his hand reaching for a weapon that wasn't there.

And as I watched, the strange incongruity of the situation struck me almost painfully: I had chosen my fictional persona only because she was no one, and in such a short time she had become someone quite famous indeed. The only reason Irene Dubois was in such danger now was because of Katelienne Laurent's actions. If I had never become someone else, I wouldn't have had to defend my true self now.

But the Count was turning towards me, his eyes wide, and I went on.

"The unknown blackmailers have asked for a certain Irene Dubois to reveal herself. I am here tonight to tell you that I am sh-"

The shot rang out across the hall like a huge cracking whip, and the ground underneath me vanished. I felt myself falling. The darkness engulfed me. I was lost in it.

* * *

><p>Up high in the sixth box, as the audience members gave themselves over to absolute terror, Linnet pocketed her revolver and got to her feet, holding a handkerchief over the lower part of her face.<p>

As the sedative rain fell from the ceiling, the glittering drops misting down onto the audience, she slipped out through the doorway. Nicolas followed, holding his handkerchief to his nose.

It was time for the finale. She allowed herself a small smile at this idea.

She went through the great double doors and down the corridor, Nicholas after her, and heard the heavy double doors close on the sounds of the audience members' terror, courtesy of the Phantom. No one stopped her; she knew no one would. They were all occupied with the writer's disappearance. And the sedatives, of course.

Linnet turned right, then left, then right again, and went into the stairwell. Irene's old room was a few floors up.

After a few minutes, she entered the corridor, found the room, and went inside. Nicolas shut the door behind them. Linnet crossed to the wall and slammed her palm into the panel.

The wall opened.

She turned and held out an open hand.

Nicolas handed her the vial.

"Thank you."

"Shall we?" he asked, indicating the open wall.

Linnet smiled at him. "Yes."

They stepped into the passageway, lighting their candles. Nicolas shut the heavy wall behind them, sliding it into place, and they set off into the darkness.

The writer would be in the most heavily guarded maze of traps Linnet had ever encountered, but she was well trained. And she had Nicolas to watch her back. It would be easier with him.

Besides, two of Irene's friends had already been disabled.

* * *

><p>It was so right, this plan, so direct and cold and satisfying.<p>

Tonight, she knew, was the beginning of the ending of it all.

At last.


	24. Chapter 24: Fortune et Feu

_I was practically bowled over by all your reviews, dear readers! Thank you very very much! I deeply appreciate all of your comments and questions, and I hope this chapter clears up a few things._

_By the way, in case you were confused: when Erik tripped the stage trapdoor, that was agreed upon beforehand by him and Irene. He was following her instructions, not making up his own. I hope that clarifies a few things._

_Enjoy reading!_

* * *

><p>He lay in the darkness, the heavy wetness soaking his side, and watched the thin lines of gold light between the stage boards waver, as the Opera House's auditorium doors slammed shut, locking the terrified audience inside. Soon they would be unconscious, dulled into sleep by the cloying rain that had fallen without warning, soundless as it sparkled its silvery way down.<p>

It was with a sense of exhaustion unmarred by fear that he let his eyelids close. Irene would wake up soon and call to him. And after that, there would be a long interlude of consciousness, during which the bullet in his intestines would have to be pulled free from the bloody threads of mangled human tissue.

But for now he could rest.

Francis lay still in the silence of the dark circular room that resembled a deep pit, and let himself slip away into troubled dreams.

* * *

><p>She ran through the passageways, feeling her way through them by the rush of water-soaked wind that billowed past her, following its moist scent down to the underground lake. There was no need for a candle. The torch-lit walls were fiery in their brightness.<p>

For a long minute, the pull and stretch of unused muscles in her body was thrilling, a call to deeper things, of dance and song and hunt. She breathed in the cold air like an elixir, let it play over her face and neck, drank in the furious strength of her own movement.

But the exhilaration faded, overtaken by a surge of icy fear: an icicle slipping down into her belly. She had heard the gunshot. She had seen the sleeping audience. She had not found Erik, or Irene, or Francis, one of whom was supposed to be waiting for her in the back passageway.

The second plan was failing, and Antoinette knew it. At least one of the S.C.O.W.L. members was injured, and others might be quick to follow. She threw herself down the stairs, heading to Erik's house with a sense of fearful abandon.

Her job was to ascertain that everyone was well and to urge them onward, away from the Opera House. They had planned beforehand that if something went terribly wrong, Erik, Irene, and Nadir would leave Paris, slipping away through the night on horses, carrying only their most precious belongings, and go to the cottage in the woods. Francis and Antoinette would depart also, but in opposite directions: Francis to England; Antoinette to her country home in the south of France.

It had been a hasty plan, but Erik had promised that after he and Irene and Nadir reached the cottage, they would find another place to stay. They knew the woods were too close to Paris for them not to be searched.

Antoinette anticipated the descent of police upon the Opera House, as had the rest of them. The audience, upon awakening, would not remember precisely everything, but they would remember enough to spur a search for Katelienne Laurent. They would also be highly interested in finding the Count, who had been seen onstage with the villainess.

First, the police would tear through the Opera House, wreaking havoc and destroying walls, pulling up the stage and tearing down the tapestries. They would find most of the passageways, if not all of them, and eventually they would make their way down to Erik's home.

After compiling their evidence, the police would leave the Opera, with journals of their findings in hand, and inform the public of their new information. The Count would be named a prime suspect in Katelienne's disappearance; the Phantom would be sighted all over London (incorrectly, of course), and the former Opera workers would be questioned mercilessly.

Antoinette hoped that by going deep into the heart of France, the police would not find her for some time, but someday she knew they would. Of course, by that time, her story would be so carefully constructed that not even the police would find any evidence of wrongdoing in it.

As for Honoré and Ferdinand Hunter, the other Opera leaders, the former had left France a week after Rose's death, and the latter had mysteriously vanished a few days later. It seemed they had no desire to be in a place where their lives were threatened, and for this Antoinette did not blame them. Self-preservation would have been her instinct too, if she hadn't been entangled so deeply in the plot against Katelienne, and so determined to keep her friends safe.

But why was she thinking of this now? There were more important subjects to dwell on, and if she wasn't mistaken, she had almost reached the main passageway. After turning into it, she need only travel a mere five minutes more to Erik's home.

She spun around a corner, her skirts flapping around her legs, still thinking.

Then there was the sound of footsteps, several of them, and the flash of many candles up ahead. Antoinette staggered to a stop, reaching for the wall to steady her shaking legs.

She doubted the visitors were Nadir, or Erik and Irene. They would not have taken this passageway from the stage to the home, and Nadir would have taken a different one down from the rafters. No, these people were strangers, and most likely the very strangers who had fired a gun in the auditorium only minutes earlier.

She turned, intent upon taking another path to Erik's home, already thinking of how to warn S.C.O.W.L., and a woman stepped out of the second corridor's entrance, her face inquiring.

* * *

><p>Her gold hair, tumbled from its chignon, fell past her delicate shoulders. Her eyes were a dark, distant blue. She was beautiful.<p>

Antoinette thought of Luke.

"And who are you?" the woman asked.

Antoinette did not bother with stupid answers; she went for her knife.

The woman was faster – she proved this by flicking her wrist forward, and a dart sprouted from the back of Antoinette's wrist. Antoinette stopped reaching for her knife.

The red feathers on the end of the heavy silver spine fluttered in the damp wind. She reached down to pull it out, watching with slow fascination as blood spread around the tip, but her fingers were as slow as though they moved through tar.

"You must be… one of the Inspector's…"

The words were full and heavy on her tongue, and she could not force the rest of the clumsy sentence out. Her wrist throbbed with pain. Her sight was blurring around the edges, rendering her peripherals useless. The woman stepped forward into the center of Antoinette's vision, her ivory gown swishing beautifully in the red-gold torchlight.

"No, Madame, I act of my own accord. I am not one of Dumont's hired weaklings. Nicolas!"

Her voice had been matter-of-fact till the end; now it rose in sound. "I have one!"

Antoinette, distracted by the spinning ground, forgot to listen. Her legs crumbled away beneath her; her arms folded in on her body. The cobblestones welcomed her with stony arms, and the fiery world of the passageway went black.

* * *

><p>I woke to darkness; thick, pressing darkness that kept the air from my lungs, and panicked. Why couldn't I breathe? Where was I?<p>

I brought my arms up, clawing at the black prison over my face, and soft cloth ripped under my fingernails. Ah. I was under a blanket. I pulled it down and sat up, blinking in the dim light.

I was in a sort of underground room – oh, yes, the room under the trapdoor, the room we had fallen into – and there was supposed to be someone with me. The Count.

Shakily, I pulled myself to my feet, and staggered towards a large lump of clothing a few feet away from where I had fallen.

Francis' eyes were closed, and the side of his coat was black and shining with fresh blood.

I fell to my knees besides him, my heart thudding in my chest, and pressed my fingers to the pulse-point in his neck.

Thank God, he had a heartbeat. He was alive.

"Francis?" I gasped, my fingers shaking violently as I tried to unbutton his coat. If I could ascertain the state of the wound, I might be able to help him. The top button broke when I yanked at it, but the second one fought me. I gave up on it and reached for my knife. I could slit the fabric.

"That hurts."

I looked up, nearly dropping the knife in my relief, and Francis stared back at me, his pale face drawn with pain.

"You're alright," I said, numbly.

"I would dispute the merit… of that statement," he whispered, his lips curling in a grimace.

I put down the knife and leaned over him, feeling tears prick at the corners of my eyes. "I am so sorry about this, Francis."

"Forget it. It wasn't your… fault. Where's… Erik?"

The words had been difficult for him to get out; I saw a tremor flit across his face. I shook my head and picked up the knife again, blinking away the wetness in my eyes.

"I don't know. I'm sorry if this hurts, but I have to get this coat off you. I need to see how badly you're hurt."

"Thought… you would say that."

He was being funny, even though he was badly hurt, even though it was clear I had no idea how to help him. I fought back a gasp of needless, half-sobbing laughter, and sliced through another buttonhole. Where was Erik? I was no doctor.

Francis gasped, his chest heaving with sudden pain, and I almost cut through his shirt and into the skin and nerves below.

"You have to lie still," I said, pleading. "I can't help you if you move, Francis."

He didn't respond, only fought for air, his eyes squeezed tight. I put the knife down and reached for a puddle of old fabric. The blood was still flowing from his side; I had to stop the bleeding if I couldn't help in any other way.

When I pressed down on the wound, Francis gasped sharply, and his eyes rolled up into his head. With a sigh of released air, he relaxed into unconsciousness. I watched his blood stream over my hands and onto my skirts, the thick crimson staining everything it touched. Desperately, I pressed down harder, and the flow grew sluggish.

For some odd reason, the room smelled like smoke.

* * *

><p>Erik had seen the Count propelled backwards by the bullet, lifted half into the air with the force, the blood spurting from his blue coat as if it was a fountain. He had watched Irene stagger backwards, her shock so strong that she did not even close her mouth. And he had yanked down the trapdoor lever and sent them both into the room under the stage, where they would tumble down onto blankets and safety.<p>

He had pulled the second lever next, the one that would close the auditorium doors and lock the audience inside; a moment earlier, Nadir had performed his assigned task of releasing the sedative rain.

Erik had swept the curtains shut and ducked away through the backstage mess of props and costumes, unwilling to expose Irene and Francis to more danger by following them through the trapdoor – even he was unable to drop down into the dark pit and avoid landing on one of them. He would not risk it. He would make it in time to them, in time to stop Francis from succumbing to blood loss; in time to help.

But as he sprang over a fake cannon, for a single second frozen in flight above the ground, there was a snap and a whoosh (a trap!), and he smelled smoke. The scorching acrid scent burned the inside of his nose before he saw the flames, reaching up their brilliant fiery arms to the ceiling, devouring the wooden props like so many matches. They formed a circle of light and heat: the fire surrounded him like a burning lasso, poised to catch him in its deadly grasp.

It was only due to years and years of physical exercise that his fingers latched around the arm of an iron angel as he fell, and suspended him a few feet above the ground.

Using the angel's arm as leverage, he dragged himself onto a bookshelf, stood, and reached for the thin beam of a rafter. His fingers latched onto the wood; he wrapped his other hand around it too and swung himself into the ceiling, breathless and terrified.

He hated fire; he had _always_ hated fire. The smoke coiled around him, a miasma of black and grey, and with a shudder of pure terror, he forced himself to keep moving. If he stopped, the poisoned air would kill him, and no one would be able to help Irene.

The fire found the rafters: it ate them with glee, snatching them up into its red mouth and spitting out ash. Erik ran faster, but the smoke was stealing his strength; it warped his vision and filled his lungs with mucus. He held the bottom of his shirt up to his mouth, breathing through the wet fabric with ragged gasps.

With a crash, the rafters fell behind him, but he had burst through the hidden doorway, cool air striking him in the face. Again, he thought of Irene.

He had only seconds before the fire found the stage – Erik turned a corner and hurtled down another passageway, ignoring the sting of smoke in his lungs. If only it were possible to run faster – he had to reach her before the fire did, before the Count succumbed, before their enemies caught up to them and finished the job they had begun.

Erik, spurred on by a terrible, nameless fear, found that he was able to run faster.

* * *

><p>After releasing the sedative onto the audience, Nadir had left the rafters for the secret passageways, per S.C.O.W.L.'s orders, only to discover two large gents waiting for him, their large lumpy faces screwed into menacing glares.<p>

He had never been one to run from a fight, even when he was outnumbered, so he didn't attempt to dash back across the rafters and through the opposite door.

Instead, he smiled. "I don't suppose you work for the Inspector."

It had been the wrong thing to say – the men glanced at each other, frowning, and then looked back at him.

The taller of the two spoke, his bass voice ponderous. "No."

"Well," Nadir said, slightly confused, "then what are you doing back here?" It wasn't as though they were part of the audience; no one was allowed up here.

The tall man advanced towards him, his huge hands curling into fists. He was at least a foot taller than Nadir, and his arms were as thick as tree branches. "Our job."

Nadir decided it would probably be best to run.

* * *

><p>They cornered him in the curve of one of the secret passageways, both of them so close that Nadir could smell their rancid breath.<p>

With a sigh, Nadir gave up on running, and curled his foot around the taller man's ankle. The man blinked down at his caught leg, frowning sluggishly, and Nadir pulled hard, sending the brute crashing onto the cobblestones of the passageway.

The shorter and more intelligent man threw a knife. Nadir ducked under the spinning blade, heard it thud into the wall, and ran forward, his head down. He caught the man in the stomach. There was a wet gasp; the man bent over in the middle, retching. Nadir reeled backwards, his ears ringing.

The taller man lurched to his feet, holding one hand to his head, and threw a massive fist at Nadir's face. Nadir leaped away, barely avoiding a broken nose, and stumbled into the wall. He wasn't up to this.

For a moment he actually considered staying there, he was so worn out, but he summoned the last of his strength and staggered away before the next blow fell.

As he ran haphazardly down the corridor, heading for Erik's home and freedom (or so he hoped – the gunshots hadn't been too encouraging), he prayed that he would make it before the two thugs caught up to him. He wasn't limber as he had been before his poisoning two weeks ago.

_Or perhaps,_ he thought wryly, as a stitch formed in his side, _I'm just getting old._

But he hoped not.

* * *

><p>When the door crashed open, sending light streaming in a hellish wave over the dusty boards, I thought it was my enemies, come to murder me where I sat. I stayed where I was, pressing the sodden cloth over Francis' wound, and a whirlwind of thoughts spun through my mind: possible courses of action, ways to defend myself, ways to defend Francis.<p>

But it was Erik – he whipped the door shut and was at my side in an instant. "You weren't under the stage."

"No, we moved," I said, a little hoarsely. _Thank God he's here._ "I smelled smoke."

He knelt next to me, one of his hands resting momentarily on my face, the long fingers caressing my cheek. Then they flitted away down to the blood-soaked cloth covering Francis' side. I lifted my wet hands away so that he could lift the cloth, and he tilted his head to one side, gazing intently at the wound.

"How long has he been unconscious?"

"A little over fifteen minutes, I think. Can you – can you help him?"

We were in a small alcove off of one of the hidden passageways. With great effort, I had dragged Francis down the passageway and inside, locking the door behind us. And then there had been the sound of water falling, spattering against the ceiling from above, and the smell of smoke had faded slightly. I had ignored the rain for the most part, because Francis' wound took all my attention. It was like the mouth of a red river; it would not be stemmed with cloth.

"Yes," Erik said, after a long minute. "Yes, I think the bullet went through the flesh and out again – it is gone. And it does not appear to have injured any vital organs."

"So we sew it up?" I said.

"Do you have needle and thread?"

I produced a sewing kit from my pocket and handed it to him. Erik said nothing, but I could tell he was surprised. "I carry it in case I rip my dress," I explained. "But is the wound clean? We can't sew it up if it is dirty."

"I have antiseptic," Erik said, trying to open the kit with bloody fingers. "It's in my pocket."

I hastily ripped a swath of cloth from my skirt and shoved it at Erik. "Take this and wipe your hands. I'll open that."

While Erik threaded the needle, I located a candle stub and lit it – and was momentarily startled by the Phantom's soot-streaked face.

"Erik! What happened to you?"

"I was caught in a fire," Erik said shortly, "but I put it out. The audience was unharmed. Can you uncap the antiseptic for me?"

As I did so, I looked him up and down, trying to find burns, or wounds, but there was nothing. "Here you go. Oh, no, he's waking up."

Erik leaned forward, drizzling antiseptic in a clear stream into the wound. "Hold him still. Hold his shoulders down."

I crawled over behind the Count and put my hands on his shoulders, and he opened his brown eyes into mine.

"Jeannette?"

"Oh, God, he's delirious," I said, horrified.

Erik, the needle flashing in his hand, sighed, and made the first stitch.

The Count squirmed in pain, fighting me. Erik snarled under his breath (he might have stuck his finger) and kept stitching, his dark head bent low to see the wound. I leaned all my weight on Francis' upper body.

"Lie still, Francis," I said, shakily. "Lie still; we're trying to help you."

* * *

><p>My reassurances were no good; the Count struggled all the more, wild with fever, and Erik continued to sew. I kept talking, but I lost track of what I was saying after a while and began to repeat myself. It wasn't as though he knew what I was saying to him; he kept whispering Jeannette's name in a distracted, lost tone.<p>

But finally Erik straightened up and dropped the needle, and the Count relaxed onto the cobblestones, as limp as if his bones had turned to water.

"Now what?" I whispered, passing my sweaty hand over the Count's burning forehead. "We can't leave him here. We need to get back down to the house."

Erik's eyes met mine. He nodded.

"We can both carry him," I said, getting to my feet with effort. "I'll take his feet."

This little joke won me a faint half-smile: Erik also remembered the last time we had been carrying a man up and down the secret passageways.

"Very well," he agreed, wincing as he stood. "Let's go and see if the rest of S.C.O.W.L. has arrived yet."

I blinked in slight surprise, amused despite myself. "You used the acronym! I thought you hated it!"

"Even _I_ change my mind," Erik said, bending down to take the Count's shoulders. "Besides, you made it up, and usually I find that I like nearly everything you do."

"Of course you do," I said, taking the Count's feet (and grunting with the weight). "I am simply amazing."

"But _I_ am a genius," Erik said, pushing the door open with his shoulder. "I think I trump you."

"We are equal, you lout," I said. "Could you take most of Francis' weight? My arms are tired."

"_Proof!"_ Erik exclaimed, albeit weakly, as if being stronger proved anything at all. "I _knew_ I was more amazing."

I eyed him with great scorn.

The door shut behind us, and we went off through the passageways, hurrying towards our friends, hurrying away from the fear and sorrow and turmoil of the bloody room and the burned backstage.

For we were together now, and what could stand in the way of Love?


	25. Chapter 25: Le Gant Levée

_Wow, Fanfiction would not let me login today - it finally started working around 7 pm. So hopefully it won't die again tomorrow! _

_Thank you for all of your reviews: they were very kind and so much fun to read. I hope you enjoy this chapter!_

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><p>We moved as if in a fever dream: the flickering torches on the cold walls of the corridors slipped by, the cobblestones vanished away under our feet. The Count lay heavy in our arms, his labored breaths fluttering out like broken butterflies.<p>

The shadows flitted and danced with our walking under the torches, our blocking and freeing of the light, black to gold to black again on the cobblestones. Erik's eyes were shadowed by the darkness; he was curved slightly downward to better bear Francis' weight. I struggled to keep my side of the injured man up, but my arms were sore and shaking.

Vaguely, I wondered why we hadn't met any of our mysterious enemies yet: we were certainly making enough noise to alert them to our presence. My feet were stupid and slow on the cobblestones, thudding at intervals, dragging at others; Erik's breathing was as ragged and as loud as mine.

But as long as they did not come, we had hope that we could make it. Our friends, however, were another matter.

I had asked Erik about Antoinette:

"Did you see her?"

"No, she wasn't backstage. She is smart enough to avoid the smell of smoke, though, so I think she is probably taking another passageway down here." He caught his breath, swallowed, and said, "I did not see Nadir either. I was… preoccupied."

"They must be down at your house," I decided.

Erik didn't say anything.

I looked at him, hard, knowing what he was thinking. _If our enemies had already destroyed the entire backstage, what traps had they laid for our friends? If they had shot the Count, what had they done to Antoinette or Nadir?_

"We have to move faster."

He nodded, but I could see how difficult this was for him; I could see the deep lines in his forehead, the grey ashes in his hair. I could see the stress, and the fear, and the weight of this night… The terror of the possible losses…

My heart ached for him, but we had to go on.

* * *

><p><em>Luctor et emergo…<em>

* * *

><p>Twenty long minutes later, we came down the staircase and stopped at the far shore of the lake. It was difficult to get Francis into the gondola, but with Erik's careful maneuvering, we managed to place him in the bottom of the boat with Erik's jacket under his head. He was still unconscious, and from Erik's face, I took it that this was a bad sign.<p>

I glanced doubtfully at the small gondola, trying to determine how three people were going to fit in such a delicate boat and yet stay afloat in the freezing waters. Erik straightened up from checking Francis' pulse and turned to look at me.

"We won't all fit," I said. "You should take Francis across first and settle him on the couch. I'll wait here – unless you don't mind me retracing my steps upstairs and finding another passageway inside."

"I closed them all except for three," Erik reminded me. "And those are at the top of the Opera. You should wait here; I'll be back in a moment."

"Very well," I said, and sat down on the stone shore, wrapping my arms around my legs. It was cold, and I was tired.

Erik looked at me with his weary green eyes. "Do you need a weapon?"

"I have my knife."

He stepped into the gondola, and swept the pole down into the water, spurring the boat out into the lake. The black water rippled in great swaths away from him, spreading into the distance like vibrations from a giant church bell turned on its side.

I blinked hard to keep my drowsy eyes open, flexed my hands to keep them limber in case I had to use my knife, and waited.

* * *

><p>When Erik came back across the lake, he looked lighter. Somehow more at peace, as though he had passed through a sunlit valley and emerged refreshed. I took his proffered hand and stepped into the gondola, wondering.<p>

"What is it?" he asked, using only one hand to steer – the other kept hold of mine.

"You seem… different," I said, looking up at his face. "What happened?"

Erik shook his head and stared off across the water. "I don't know. But I feel better. Antoinette and Nadir aren't here yet, though."

"Not here yet?" For some reason this important necessity had slipped my mind. "But where can they be? It couldn't have taken this long for them to get down here. We have to go find them."

"No, we need to stay and care for the Count. He's ill, Irene. We can't leave him."

"But Antoinette! And Nadir!"

The Phantom leaned closer to me, his mouth curved downwards in disagreement. "I know, but you have to trust that they'll be here soon. I can't leave Francis – and although you could, I don't think you should go off by yourself."

I wrenched my hand from his grasp. "Erik, I am fully capable of taking care of myself. Antoinette and Nadir may be in grave danger. You have to let me go help them."

We had nearly reached the shore. Erik dug the pole three more times into the lake bottom, pushing against the mud in powerful strokes and we were there.

He stepped from the boat with his usual lithely grace; turned to offer me his hand in support. I took it. I could not refuse such a gentle gesture, but I wanted him to know I disagreed with his decision, and that I planned to overrule it.

"We have to go find them," I said. "Erik, we don't know where they are. And they could be in great danger – our enemies set a fire to kill you – the Count was shot – we have to go look for them."

I was off the boat now, and Erik had released my hand; I'd turned away from him to stare at the house and the hidden passageways I knew were inside.

He took hold of my shoulders, turning me to him. "I won't let you get yourself killed, Irene. Listen to me. _Listen._"

I finally looked up at him, but I was angry and he had to know it.

He did, but he did not let go. "We will give Nadir and Antoinette ten more minutes to get down here, and during that time, I will tend to the Count – with your help, if you wish. If they do not show up by then…"

He paused, and let go of my shoulder, his lips compressed in thought. "Then we'll have to decide our next steps. But right now, we have an injured man to care for."

I wrapped my arms around myself, thinking this through. "Only ten minutes."

Erik nodded. He dropped his other hand from my shoulder. "I put Francis on the couch – he woke up – so I gave him a dose of laudanum. Hopefully he's doing better, but…"

He trailed off, but I understood.

Gunshot wounds were not to be taken lightly.

* * *

><p>Francis opened his eyes when we entered the living room, his brown irises flat and blank in the candlelight. The white of his features contrasted sharply with the indigo cushions; his white-knuckled hands were clenched and trembling at his sides.<p>

"The laudanum's not working," he whispered.

Erik went to the side table and picked up the laudanum bottle. The dark liquid swished gently with the movement. "I can't give you any more," he told the Count, and dropped the bottle into a pocket of his coat. "I've already given you a substantial dose. Too much will put you in a coma."

Francis, whose eyes had followed the bottle in mute desperation, let out a long whistling breath that reminded me of a scream. He closed his eyes again and lay still, his white face upturned towards the ceiling.

Erik bent down to feel the Count's forehead, his expression impersonal. He lifted his hand away and turned to look at me.

"He's better," he said, low enough for Francis to ignore, but loud enough for me to hear. I nodded.

"I'm going to go change," I said. "I can't wear this gown while dashing up and down the insides of the Opera. It's too cumbersome."

"You can borrow one of my jackets," Erik said, crossing the room to one of the heavy bookshelves that lined the back wall. Reaching up, he pulled out a thick book with black binding and let it fall to the floor, then reached for another. I assumed he was opening a secret panel.

I cast one last glance at Francis, who had finally succumbed to the laudanum and fallen into a drugged sleep. His breathing was lighter, gentler; his hands were open at his sides. He would be fine now; well, fine enough for a man who had been shot. I bent down to pull off my useless satin shoes – yet another clothing item too dainty for a rushed search of the underground passageways – and went towards the door, my bare feet sinking pleasantly into the soft rugs.

Behind me, the tumult of books falling broke off abruptly. "Irene? Did you-"

He stopped. I turned to look at him, confused.

He was holding a hairpin, a long one with an inlaid strip of mother-of-pearl, in the palm of his hand.

"That's not mine," I said, the weight of the shoes suddenly lighter in my hand.

Erik's eyes went from the pin, which they had been examining, to me, and then to somewhere behind me. He set the pin down on the bookshelf with great deliberation, his movements slow, and slid a hand towards his waist.

For a moment, I wondered why he was reaching for his knife.

"Actually," said a cool, quiet voice from the door, "I believe that is mine. Monsieur."

I spun, dropping the shoes and grabbing for my own weapon, but the blond-haired woman in the doorway lifted her hand in a blur of movement.

The dart whipped end over end, a silver streak of lightning, and my shoulder erupted in pain. Another streak whistled past me; there was a solid _thunk_.

There was a cry of rage and pain from behind me – _Erik!_ – but everything was dimming, turning the woman's blue eyes and blond hair to gray. Colors faded into obscurity, seeping away from the white walls, the bluish rugs, the gold lights, vanishing into tones of dull metallic silver.

And with a final swathing of grey, the lights went out and the room went black.

* * *

><p>Linnet crossed the room to pull the darts from her victims. Yanking the points from their temporary homes of warm flesh, she began wiping them clean on handkerchiefs.<p>

"Pick them up, but only these two. Leave the manager," she commanded, and the men came through the doorway in a flood of thick muscles and sweat. They swarmed around her, lifted Irene and the masked man, and waited.

Two more men entered the room, carrying Irene's friend (what was her name? Oh, yes. Antoinette.), and looked to Linnet for instructions.

"Leave her here," Linnet said. "We don't need her."

The thugs let the older woman slide from their arms and onto the rugs with a thump. The unconscious woman lay where she had fallen, a thin line of blood dried and shiny at the corner of her mouth.

"Nicolas, my vial is empty," Linnet said, turning again to her work. It was always so difficult to remove blood from the tiny grooves in the pointed metal heads.

The blond man came to stand next to her. "I have no more sedatives."

"Very well. We will have to resort to violence if we come across any others."

Nicolas said nothing, but she thought he was amused for some reason. She ignored this; it was unimportant.

"To the carriages," she said, slipping the darts into her pocket, and headed for the door. "We don't have all night."

* * *

><p>En route to the carriages, almost through the last of the passageways, Linnet found herself confronted with an unexpected problem.<p>

She sighed in exasperation as a fistfight broke out in the hallway up ahead – apparently, the two men she had assigned to get rid of the foreigner had failed at their task.

Next to her, Nicolas watched dispassionately as the men subdued this new prisoner and hauled him to his feet.

"Bind his arms," Linnet said, her clear voice cutting through the grunts and heavy breathing of the men. Some of them were sporting new cuts and bruises; one red-haired thug had a gash dripping blood down his grizzled cheek. "And gag him. We're taking him with us."

The foreigner was silent as they shoved the cloth into his mouth and tied his wrists with rope. He did not resist, and his dark eyes met hers with a strangely furious intensity. Linnet stared back at him, startled by the mute passion she saw there. Perhaps he thought she had killed his friends; the two bodies lay limply enough in their carriers' arms.

Well, she would soon enough. She shook her head and turned away, breaking the hold his eyes had on her; Nicolas followed. "Hurry up," she said, and behind her came the tramp of boots as the men obeyed.

* * *

><p>The carriage ride was long and bumpy, but from these two things Nadir could garner nothing except that they were going deep into the country. Four times the carriages had stopped; twice for water for the horses, twice for the men to get out and stretch. He, however, hadn't been moved. He lay cramped, his long legs folded up against his body, in the confines of the second carriage seat.<p>

There were four carriages: he had seen them briefly before being manhandled into the last of them: four men climbed inside after him and settled themselves into the opposite seat. Nadir assumed that Erik and Irene had been separated into two of the others; it would be the smartest approach to take – one or the other might wake up and force the upper hand. But if they were apart, it would be less likely for either of them to incapacitate their guards.

But he doubted they would wake at all. From what he had seen of their faces, they had been sound asleep.

He could not even move his fingers now, the ropes were so tight. He felt sure that the digits had swollen from lack of circulation. His face was half-pressed into the cushions; it was difficult to breathe, especially through the gag, and only one eye could see anything. This, unfortunately, was the carriage floor. There was a curled white glove in the corner, its pale fingers flattened in on itself like a squashed flower.

He wondered who had owned it; if the woman's men had killed them too. He thought of Antoinette – where was she? And the Count – he had seen no sign of him either. He prayed that they were both alright.

But he was afraid that they were not.

* * *

><p>Francis stirred sometime around midnight: the clock rang out the time in the hallway, the bongs sounding as loud as trumpets.<p>

The living room was empty; this startled him enough to try and sit up.

But no – there was someone on the floor, her dark hair uncurling from her bun. Her face was slack; something red glimmered at her mouth.

This time, Francis did manage to sit up. "Antoinette? Antoinette!"

The pain in his side was horrible, but he ignored it and dragged himself off the couch, reaching for the side table in order to stay upright. What was Antoinette doing down here? What were Irene and Erik? What had happened in the hours he had been asleep?

"Irene?" he called. He listened. There was no answer. "Erik? Irene? Irene!"

Still no answer. The clock ticked monotonously on in the hallway.

He went a few steps. They were so difficult that he thought he would pass out from the pain; he groaned aloud and pressed his arm to his side, sweat dripping down his forehead and sliding down into his ear. He did not want to tear the stitches.

Eventually, he realized that he would have to walk unaided if he wanted to get to Antoinette. For the rest of the room lay open before him, the treacherous rugs unanchored on the slippery wooden floor, and there was no more furniture for him to lean on.

He lowered himself to his knees (the stabbing pain in his side intensified, ripping at his guts), and began to crawl.

* * *

><p>When he reached Antoinette, he first felt for her pulse. It was steady, but slow. Then he turned her head to the side, trying to figure out what had caused the bleeding, but decided that she must have bit her tongue, because otherwise she seemed fine.<p>

The only problems were that she was in a drugged sleep, and that there was a puncture mark on the back of her right hand. It wasn't too deep, thankfully, but Francis wrapped it up anyways, tearing strips from his shirt. This struck him as slightly humorous, considering the fact that everyone seeming to be shredding their clothing tonight.

But it was probably the laudanum making him giddy. He pulled another rug towards Antoinette and managed to wedge it under her head, making a sort of pillow.

There was a soft sound from the doorway – he glanced up in surprise and fear –

Oh. It was a cat. A blind one, from the look of it.

"Here, kitty," he said, hoping that it (oh, it was a she) would come in. There was no one else he could talk to. "Here, kitty, kitty."

The cat meowed and stretched, digging her claws into the bare floor. Francis winced at the high ripping noise of sharp bone on polished wood. Erik wouldn't be too thrilled about that when he came back.

_If_ he came back. Francis' eyes went unwillingly to the large spot of red on the blue rug nearest the door, then to the black satin shoes lying next to it. If he remembered correctly, Irene had been standing just over there. And Erik – he looked toward the bookcase, but he couldn't make out anything – the rug beneath was too far away and at an awkward angle for his eyes.

The cat sidled towards him, her tail lashing back and forth, and Francis looked back at her.

"It seems that we are on our own," he said to her, marveling at the fact that within a few hours' time, he had been reduced to making conversation with a cat. "Or so I suppose. Oh, how I wish you could talk."

* * *

><p>When I opened my eyes, I saw instantly that I was no longer in the Opera – there were two mahogany bookshelves in front of me, but they were not Erik's. No, because they were bare, completely bare except for a row of marble busts. Beethoven, Aristotle, Plato, and Artemis. They stared back at me with blank, empty eyes.<p>

The floor was old but clean; it stretched several feet away from me before it ran under the bookshelves. The walls were hung with paintings on either side of me: I recognized the Saint Irene painting that Antoinette had posed for during the masquerade, and my heart gave a great lurch as everything came flooding back to me.

Where was Antoinette? Where was I? Where was Erik?

As all of this flashed through my head, I was trying to free myself. I was tied to an ornate wooden chair, so heavy that I could not move it even when I pushed my feet against the ground with all my might. My arms were pulled backwards around the chair's frame: thick rope bound my wrists and wrapped my hands. My ankles were tied to the chair legs; they would not move either. I was thankful for my long skirt.

After a long minute of tugging (and wishing for my knife), I gave up and sat still, trying to calm my breathing. So the blond-haired woman had taken us from the Opera and brought us here. But where was here? Paris? The countryside? Another country entirely?

There was the sound of footsteps behind me: I turned my head as far as I could, but the candles over the bookshelves did not lend enough light to the room. I could only make out the very edge of a figure.

"Oh, don't trouble yourself, Mademoiselle Dubois," said a high-pitched, warbling voice. "Let me come around the table so you can see me."

And the Inspector stepped forward into my line of sight, his broad face alight with triumph.


	26. Chapter 26: Couteaux et Evénements

_Ooh... a new chapter! Please send me happy reviews if you like this one! (Or, rather, if you survived this one...)_

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><p>"I knew it was you," I forced out. My mouth was very dry.<p>

The Inspector shrugged, still smiling. "I thought you would, Mademoiselle Dubois. You are very perceptive; very astute. I admire you, do you know that?"

"I _detest_ you," I said, anger rising in me like a fiery tide. "But you should know that already, Inspector_._ Or is it Dumont? You never did tell me your real name."

He smiled, his fat cheeks bulging obscenely with the movement, and moved closer to me. "Ah, but it is unimportant. Don't you wish to know – what is the word, I hate this stupid language – oh, yes. Your fate?"

I had no idea what to say to him; he was acting as if all of this was some sort of farce. I longed to rip away the ropes and lunge for him with my knife, to tear the mocking smile off his face. "No. Tell me where my friends are."

The Inspector sighed. "Wouldn't you like to have a pleasant conversation before we delve into unhappier things?"

I said nothing. My head hurt, and my wrists were sore from the ropes.

"Very well, _very well, _I will tell you. They are downstairs. In my personal dungeon. Well, it is not precisely a dungeon, but I like to call my little cells that. Now, please stop grimacing at me and sit still."

He gestured, and a large man came around the table with a gleaming knife.

Everything else suddenly went very still, as my entire attention focused on the blade, the shining metallic gleam of pain.

* * *

><p><em>Luke…<em>

_There was a slashing pain as the blade sliced down, a sudden flow of red blood down my left shoulder. I could not think, could not remember… Claire! No, but I must not mention her… He would __**know**__; he always knew._

"_Tell me your real name."_

* * *

><p>"Mademoiselle!"<p>

I blinked, and found that there was moisture on my cheeks, cold and wet on my burning skin. Tears? The Inspector clapped his pudgy hands together with a sound like a gunshot – I looked at him and away from the knife.

"You are _finally_ back with us, Mademoiselle. Thank you, Hansen, that will be quite enough. Martin, go get the lady some water."

He took the knife from the thug; came towards me. I shrank back into the chair, my insides roiling, but the Inspector only tut-tutted and cut the ropes around my wrists.

"I don't know what has happened to you, Mademoiselle, but it seems to have affected you profoundly. Perhaps if you tell me, I can help."

He stepped back, letting the ropes fall onto the floor, and put the knife down on the bookshelf. I rubbed my wrists, wincing as the blood began to flow again in my hands, and ignored the Inspector's maddening stare.

I needed to get out of here and find the others, but I had no idea how. Hansen was lurking behind me – I could see him out of the corner of my left eye – and I felt sure there were others in the room. I could hear the sound of their breathing like a disturbing, slow wind.

"Well?" the Inspector asked. "Are you going to tell me?"

"I don't know what you mean," I lied, looking away from the knife. Perhaps if I could distract him long enough to reach it… "Let me and my friends go. We are of no use to you, can't you see that? You disappeared once; you can do it again quite easily. Furthermore, I haven't even been pursuing you. We've been living a peaceful life in the Opera. Why can't you leave us be?"

"Oh, but this wasn't entirely up to me," the Inspector said, his eyes sad. "Besides, I have _such_ an interest in you, Mademoiselle Dubois."

"What do you want of me?" I demanded. "Money? You can have everything. My writing? You can have that too. I'll give you anything, as long as you release me and my friends."

"I don't want your _belongings_," he snapped. "What do you think I am, a common criminal? All I want is _you_."

This was a shock. I stared at him. Martin, the second thug he had spoken to, edged around the table and set a glass of water down on the wood. The Inspector ignored this – he was fixated only on me.

"Come work for me, Mademoiselle," he pleaded, stepping closer. "You would make a wonderful addition to my group."

I couldn't help it; I laughed, and the shrillness of the tone alarmed me, but I couldn't stop. "You – you want me to _work_ for you? For you and your _thugs_? Have you lost your mind, Inspector?"

The Inspector only sighed, and crimped his lips at the edges, his expression rueful. "I thought you would say that. Of course, it doesn't diminish my opinion of you. You are an admirable woman, Mademoiselle. If only I had met you before all of this Luke business."

"What does Luke have to do with this?" I said. "I thought he was of little import to you. I mean, he _is_ dead. You can't have any use for him now."

"Have some water, Mademoiselle," the Inspector said, indicating the glass. "You'll need it."

Deciding it was best to heed his obvious warning, I picked up the water and drank thirstily. The Inspector rocked back and forth on his little heels, hands folded behind his back. When I set the glass down, he stopped rocking and looked directly at me, a slight frown marring his forehead.

"I didn't think it would come to this subject so quickly," he mused. "But it has, and I can hear her now, so you may as well come in, Linnet."

He directed the last part of his sentence to somewhere behind me – I turned.

* * *

><p>The blond-haired woman, shining in a blue gown with luminous silk ruffles cascading to the floor, swept through the door in the right wall. Something sparkled at the base of her neck: I frowned, squinting. <em>Why does that look so familiar?<em>

And then I knew. _My necklace! _The one hidden in the old box Francis had given me, the one Erik and I had planned to save until we needed to sell it.

The single diamond shone in the candlelight, its white facets gleaming with rainbows.

"See something interesting?" the woman asked me in an icy voice, swishing around the table to stop in front of me. "A beautiful necklace, is it not? It was a gift from John Monett. But you knew him by another name, I believe."

"Luke," I whispered, feeling sick. So that was where the necklace had come from, and this woman was the one who had destroyed my room. I lifted my chin in defiance, setting my eyes on hers. I would not be cowed.

The woman's eyes were like blue ice as they rested upon me, colder even than Luke's had been, and now I knew the resemblance – she was his relative. A cousin, perhaps, or maybe even a sister… No wonder she was working with the Inspector; he must have known her well, as well as he had known Luke.

"I think I will sit down while you two chat," the Inspector said cheerily, cutting into my thoughts. "Why don't you introduce yourself, Linnet? Mademoiselle Dubois must be very curious."

"Mademoiselle Dubois," the woman said, "is of course my primary concern."

She let the Inspector pass her, then pulled off her lacy black gloves and dropped them onto the floor, clasping her pale hands together for a moment as she appraised me. I raised my eyebrows – she was odd.

"I am Linnet Jacques."

_Jacques? But surely not Monett?_

"I am not related to John Monett, if that is what you are thinking," she snapped, the evidence of her sudden fury rising red in her pale cheeks. "I was his wife."

I could not believe this, even after all I had known about Luke. _His wife?_ But what of Claire? Hadn't _she_ been his wife, and look at what this had given her – death. How could this woman stand before me and announce, with pride, that she was a murderer's wife?

Linnet put a hand to her blond head, catching a curl that had slipped from her chignon, and looked back at me with impassive eyes.

"Linnet," the Inspector said from behind me, his voice remonstrative, "I _did_ ask you to tell her the truth."

The woman dropped her hand from her hair and inspected it, turning it over, and over again, running a finger over the flawless palm. When she spoke again, she spoke to her hands.

"I was not his wife. I was his lover. And he was mine. We were happy."

Her tone was flat and matter-of-fact; the words sounded rehearsed, as if she had thought them through for ages, repeating the sentences multiple times in her head until they became tired and empty. I felt a chill run down my back as I watched her; she still had not looked up from her hands; she was still examining them as if for dirt. I wanted a weapon, some way to defend myself against her – she seemed unstable.

The Inspector gave a little cough, as if to remind me that I was supposed to be having a conversation. I swallowed, realized my mouth was parched, and reached for the water glass. I would think while I drank.

Linnet glanced up at me, her eyes gleaming strangely, as I set the glass back down on the table.

I said, coolly, "Did you know Claire? She was my sister. She was the woman Luke – oh, sorry, _John_ – murdered. The one..." I paused. "The one he_ married_."

* * *

><p>It was as though I had slapped her – she sprang forward like a lioness, her pale hands clawing for my face. One sharp nail cut my cheek before I threw myself to the side to escape her.<p>

The chair toppled over. I brought my arms up to protect my head, but something caught the back of the chair and wrenched it up, saving me. Hansen, leaning over me, set a large hand between Linnet's collarbones and shoved.

Linnet skidded back into the bookshelf, gave a grunt of pain, and sat down on the floor: Artemis' bust toppled from the shelf above her and landed heavily on the floor, the stone edges of the sculpture cutting divots into the wood as it slid toward the table.

I brushed the blood from my cheek. "Well, that was foolish of you."

"Mademoiselle Irene," the Inspector said, as if this was a jousting match or something equally idiotic, "taunting your opponent when she is down is impolite. Linnet, do you need a hand?"

"No," Linnet spat. "Call your dog off, Dumont."

She was referring to Hansen, who had crossed toward her, his bulky arms folded imposingly over his chest.

"So your name is Dumont?" I inquired. Rule number one of surviving interrogations: Keep your enemy talking.

The Inspector let out a little laugh. "No. But a point for trying. Hansen, come here."

The thug went away behind the table again, and Linnet got to her feet, rubbing the back of her head.

"I _will_ be allowed to have my fun," she said, glaring at the Inspector, who'd come to stand next to me. "You promised me that much."

"I promised you the others," the Inspector rejoined. "Not Mademoiselle Dubois."

"The others?" I demanded, a jolt of fear rippling cold and stark up my spine. "Who are you talking about?"

The Inspector spread his hands and looked sympathetically at me. Linnet smiled.

"No," I said. "No, no, no. Take me instead. Kill me, or whatever you're going to do – do that to me. Not to my friends. Not to…"

"Your love?" Linnet asked, advancing towards me. The knife from the bookshelf had somehow found its way into her hand. "But you killed _mine_."

"He killed my sister!" I screamed. "And I did not kill him! _He fell on his own sword!"_

Linnet spun the knife in her hands (it appeared Luke's affinity for them had been passed on to his lover), smiling so widely that her lips appeared to crack. The Inspector patted me on the shoulder, his fat fingers squishy against my bare skin.

"What's all the fuss?" a new voice asked, a masculine one. The Inspector stopped patting me (thank God) and turned to welcome the newcomer. Linnet glanced away from me, her eyes filling suddenly with even brighter interest.

"Nicolas," she breathed. "So good of you to join us."

I turned, and beheld a nightmare.

* * *

><p>A blond-haired man, his skin familiarly pale, his eyes cold and blue and nihilistic, stared back at me with the leveled gaze of a predator.<p>

_Luke Garmin?_

"I know what you're thinking," said the other-Luke, his pale lips thinning into a parody of a smile, "but I'm not him. I'm his brother."

I opened my mouth to speak, but I had nothing to say.

His brother. I was Claire's sister. I had gone after Luke for revenge of my sister's death – this other-Luke must be here to take his own revenge on me. It was a parallel, a strange, twisted parallel, and yet it was not.

"Funny, isn't it?" the other-Luke (no, his name was Nicolas, Nicolas, not Luke) asked. "How our roles are reversed this time?"

He had come around the table; he stood before me. I felt naked, exposed, horrified. My emotions must have been written on my face; he abruptly turned away, facing the bookshelves, his entire body tense with an odd, riveting strain. I stared at him; I could not look away.

But then Linnet edged closer to me, the knife still in her hand, and I jerked away from her involuntarily, although she was at least a foot away. Hansen moved, with a nearly imperceptible sigh, to block her.

"Will you stop it!" she cried, nearly dancing on the spot in her fury. The knife jiggled up and down in her hand, flashes of light sparking from the blade. "Dumont, your _dog_ is nagging me!"

The Inspector lifted a quieting hand, his eyes fixed on me. Linnet raised a hand to her hair in the same way she had before, tossing the knife away into the corner. The clattering seemed to rouse Nicolas – he turned around.

When he moved, I could not help myself – I saw Luke in every action, in the lift of his shoulders, the tilt of his chin, the flash of his eyes. His brother's features were so close to his own that they could have been twins – I had yet to find a differing point. Perhaps the nose was a little thinner? Or the hair darker?

But the light was too dim to tell much more. Nicolas moved in my direction, eyes never wavering from my face.

"I'd tell you how I found out who you were," he said, "but it would take all night. The Inspector was very helpful; I'll tell you that. And Linnet too – I met her in Paris a few years ago, before all of this - John introduced her to me. She's a marvelous thief; she was the one who planted the notes."

I only stared at him. "But – how? We never saw her."

Nicolas laughed. "Does the name Landon ring a bell?"

"But he was a hired stagehand!"

"The real Landon Montrier died two months ago," Nicolas said. "It was pure luck we found him when we did; we'd almost run out of options for getting into the Opera House. Linnet assumed his persona without any difficulty. He'd always been a loner. She enhanced that."

"You weren't there," I said. "I would have known if you were there."

"Oh, I wasn't there the whole time," Nicolas agreed, holding an arm up to stop Linnet from advancing on me. She had picked up the knife again: this time she was tossing it into the air, letting it spin down into her hands. "I only spoke to you once. I was the red-haired reporter at the entrance, the one that harassed you, remember? Your Phantom threw a bucket of paint on me."

_Erik._ So they did know of him, too. Luke must have told them more than I'd assumed. But the others – they couldn't know how much the others meant to me. And surely some of them had escaped – perhaps the Count, or Nadir – surely not all of us were trapped in here, in this unknown, treacherous house.

Behind me, the Inspector shifted, his shoes scraping against the ground as he grew impatient with the pace of the story. Nicolas, heeding this, continued.

"I was the Poisoner," he said. "Linnet was the Blackmailer. The men that attacked the Phantom were the Inspector's; he was kind enough to loan them to us (some of them, permanently). Linnet killed the ballerina; dropped poisons into people's drinks around France, and I was the one who mixed them. Intriguing, isn't it, that the foreigner Linnet poisoned turned out to be your friend?"

I shook my head numbly, feeling nauseous and overwhelmed. So Linnet had been Landon – the stagehands Madame Giry had mentioned milling onstage around Rose before her death had included Linnet. Under the cover of costumes and noise, she had stabbed the girl and fled.

"You must have something to say," Nicolas said, moving forward. "A protest, perhaps? A few last words. A plea to free your friends?"

"You are exactly like your brother," I said, drawing a long, cold breath of anger and pain and regret. "A murderer, a coward, a weak-willed hypocrite. Yes, I sought revenge on Luke, because of the death of my sister, but he killed _himself_. He was stupid enough to challenge me to a duel – and when he lost, he fell on his own blade. Your brother was a fool, Nicolas, and _so are you._"

* * *

><p>Nicolas drew back his arm and slapped me, his entire hand connecting with the side of my head.<p>

He had hit me so hard that my ears began to ring; water formed in my eyes, but I was not crying. I glared at him, at the watery shadow looming over me through the pain. Yes, he was exactly like his brother. Exactly like him. And I hated him.

Linnet was laughing, a high-pitched muddle of sound rising over the dull ringing in my ears. "Of course the idiot would say that!" she shrieked. "A fool! Why, _she_ is the fool!"

A low murmur from the Inspector, probably an order to get "the lady some more water." I gritted my teeth, fighting back the pain. I had to be smart to get out of here; I could not continue provoking people.

My eyes cleared: Nicolas was over by the bookshelves again, his back to me, and Linnet was much closer. Much, much closer.

And she still had the knife.

She slashed down with it, dancing towards me, and suddenly I knew what was about to happen. I gripped the edges of the chair, trying stupidly to push it away, but it would not move. It was so heavy, so immovable.

Linnet pivoted, swirled – her dress shimmered with fiery tongues of blue light – and cut through the shoulder of my dress. Pain blossomed like a terrifying flower on my skin, burning and triumphant, and Luke's _L_ scar was made new again.

The Inspector shouted something wordless – Linnet spun away, blood dripping from her knife – Hansen lunged forward, so late that it was almost funny, and I sank back into my chair, my heart frantically pounding the blood out of my body.

Nicolas' eyes fixed on the ground under my chair: he had turned after Linnet cut me.

For a long minute, he simply stood there, eyes on the blood, and did nothing.

Shakily, I pressed a hand to the wound in my shoulder, trying to stem the flow of blood, even as it slid between my fingers and dripped onto the floor. Because that was what you were supposed to do when you were bleeding: try and stop it.

Nicolas went past Linnet and Hansen (the two were struggling for control of the knife - Linnet was losing), past the Inspector, who was barking orders rather gleefully for a basin of water and some cloth, past the table, and out the door.

I turned my attention back to the cut in my shoulder – yes, Linnet had reopened Luke's cut that he'd made months ago – and tore a long strip of cloth from the hem of my skirt, taking the chance to loosen the ties around my left ankle as I did so. I glanced up: the Inspector was giving me a disapproving look, shaking his head slowly from side to side.

With a silent sigh, I sat back and pressed the cloth to my wound: the stream of blood was weaker; a good sign. I would have to figure out how to untie myself later; even now, with several things happening at once, there were too many eyes on me.

"I will take over now," said a new voice, and I looked up into the face of yet another thug. He was wearing thin-rimmed glasses; his head was nearly shaved: only thin blond stubble remained.

"My doctor, Alphonse," the Inspector explained. "You are in good hands, Mademoiselle Dubois."

I doubted this. Alphonse put down a case on the table, flipped it open, and took out several pieces of gauze. He lifted out a needle and thread; a clear glass bottle, a clean cloth.

"Now I will clean the wound," the supposed doctor intoned, taking a basin of water from another thug. "Please remove your hands."

I did so, but only because I knew that an open wound would hamper my plans for escape. I looked away.

In the corner, Linnet was sitting on the floor, her hair in disarray, her dress furiously crumpled from her struggle. Hansen stood in front of her as though he was her bodyguard. The appropriated knife sat firmly in his belt. The Inspector smiled genially down at me from his position at my right shoulder, his little black eyes very calm.

"It is amazing, isn't it, Mademoiselle Dubois," he said, "that so many things can happen in one night! I cannot _wait_ to see what occurs next. Martin - bring me another rope for the lady. I seem to have cut up this one."

While Martin retied my hands behind the chair, I thought bitterly that I, on the other hand, _could_ wait.

In fact, I could wait for a very, very long time.


	27. Chapter 27: La Douleur

_Venture Wood, how on earth did you figure out what I was going to write? The last part of your review was almost completely correct! And thank you for the advice - I will consider it._

_Reviewers, you have been sending me such lovely, long and detailed reviews - I am so happy and thankful! Thank you, thank you, thank you._

_This is another chapter you will have to survive: it was actually quite difficult to write._

_I wish you luck!_

* * *

><p>I sat back down in the chair that was my prison, watching Hansen watch me, his lowered brows intent as he blocked my path, his brawny arms folded. He was there to make sure I did not try to escape – which I had no intention of doing so, as I had counted the guards (sixteen, five of which were in the room), and also because Hansen bore a strong resemblance to a fully grown bear.<p>

"Tie the lady up, please," said the Inspector from the doorway. He had allowed me a short bathroom break ("to wash your hands and face, Mademoiselle; you seem a little dirtied,") which I had taken willingly.

Martin, a short scrawny man with black hair, came forward to tie my feet, tugging on the ropes to make sure they were tight. I gritted my teeth: the wound in my shoulder was still fresh, and any rough handling caused it to stretch painfully.

"_Gently,_ Martin, _gently_. Alphonse has done enough work for tonight. Leave her hands; she won't be going anywhere. Now I want you to go fetch the first prisoner. Take Jackson and Harrison and some others with you."

_No, no, no, _I prayed, staring straight ahead to hide my emotions. _Not Erik. Not Nadir. Not Madame Giry. Not Francis. Please, no. Don't bring them out here. Please._

The door creaked open. "The prisoners?" asked an eager voice. "It's time?"

Martin, having checked the tightness of the ropes three times, went away, gathering men as he went. The door slammed.

I closed my eyes.

"It is, Linnet," the Inspector said, in a fatherly sort of tone. "There are supplies behind the bookcases."

Linnet had left the room earlier; I had seen her pass in the hallway, trailed by an ever-present guard, her face contorted with some sort of anguish. It had called to mind the expressive faces of invalids: sweat rolling from the forehead, eyes fiery and pained, lips tightened and pale.

But now she danced lightly past me, wearing a new gown: this one was bright crimson, and fell to the tops of her bare feet. I glanced down at the white, sun-starved skin of her toes, wondering if this was another symptom of her sickness. I had decided that she was suffering from some sort of mental illness, one that manifested itself in fanatical, blood-thirsty mania.

"I wonder which one we will begin with," Linnet said in a sing-song voice, and I looked up at her. She smiled evilly at me, showing most of her teeth. "I wonder, I wonder, I wonder. Hmm… Perhaps the handsome dark one."

_Was she talking to me? _But it was impossible to tell; I stared at the bookshelf over her shoulder, ignoring her creepy comments.

Linnet turned to the bookshelves, strode forward. Reaching out, she touched the top of Beethoven's white head with one fingertip, pressing the other hand to her mouth.

"You pick it up," the Inspector said, helpfully. "Then step back – it opens quickly."

"More secret rooms," said Nicolas' voice. "How appropriate, don't you think, Irene?"

I suppressed a shudder (and a rude reply) and went on watching Linnet. She seemed to be struggling to pull Beethoven off the shelf; her shoulders were nearly twitching with the strain.

"May I assist, Linnet?" Nicolas inquired, stepping past me. "You don't seem… well, let me help."

He wrapped both hands around Beethoven's neck, over Linnet's annoyed protests, and tugged. Beethoven lurched out of his position on the bookshelf, and now I could see that there was a metal plate in the spot where he had been – and a twin metal plate on the bottom of the bust. A magnet, a powerful one.

Nicolas dropped Beethoven unceremoniously on the ground and tugged Linnet away, just as the bookshelves slid apart with a screeching of old metal railings.

There were runners on the floor, runners on which the bookshelves had spun out and away to face the opposite walls, but I was not looking at them. I was looking at the recess in the wall that the bookshelves had been hiding.

It was like another bookshelf, but this one was carved from the stone wall itself, and this one was not empty at all. Linnet let out of a cry of delight.

"Wonderful!"

* * *

><p>The shelves were overflowing with strange objects: a row of dusty vials; three curved daggers; a terrifying weapon entirely made of spikes with a long pole on the end for the wielder to grasp. A cat o'nine tails, glass shards and nails dangling from the leather ends; a metal glove with gaping blackness inside; a long iron bar.<p>

I could not look anymore. I focused on my hands, trying to forget the images burned into my brain. Now I knew why people confessed to anything when faced with torture. If the mere sight of such objects induced gripping terror, it was clear that having them used on you was comparable to living death.

"There are no darts," Linnet said, swiveling away from the recess with a pout. "And Nicolas, you haven't mixed up any new potions for me. I'll have to use these old ones."

Nicolas shrugged. "I've been occupied."

The Inspector, who was apparently already bored with the conversation, snapped his fingers loudly. One of the thugs pulled a chair out from the table, and he sat down in it with a sigh, his heavy bulk settling thickly into the cushions.

"Linnet, I thought you had enough darts of your own. Those should be sufficient enough for your needs." He glanced sideways at me, winking conspiratorially as if to say: _Children. They're never satisfied._

I stared back at him, trying to convey the immensity of my fear, my pain, my terror. Perhaps I could sway him into pity; perhaps I could convince him to release my friends. He looked back at me for a long moment, and my heart fluttered in my chest like a live bird trying to escape.

"But new ones are always so nice," Linnet said, and the Inspector turned his attention from me to her. She took a careful step in his direction, lifting the hem of her gown genteelly above her feet. "And my old ones haven't been washed."

"I did not promise you new darts," the Inspector said, and there was a hint of annoyance in his tone. "I gave you supplies, and all without payment. You know I wanted you to bring the compass, but did you? No. You left it in her room, and now you are complaining."

Linnet scowled, but acquiesced. "Fine. I won't ask again."

I had begun to mull over the importance of the compass (for it was still with me, actually, tucked into the corner of my deepest pocket), when there was a footstep I knew well. I looked up, and Erik entered the room, flanked by six men, his hands bound behind his back, his jaw dirty with old blood.

His eyes flew to mine; slid down my face, down my shoulders to my bare feet, and up again. I saw him breathe out: a soundless sigh of relief that I was uninjured. Perhaps it was well after all that Alphonse had sewn up the torn shoulder of my dress, hiding the bandages. It would not do Erik any good to see my pain.

I noticed that he was limping, and could not tell if this was feigned or not; he looked immensely tired. His green eyes were diminished to a sickly shade of gray. The skin of his face was tight and stretched; his movements were loose, jerky, uncontrolled. But he still wore his mask, and at the familiar sight of it, despite myself, I relaxed.

The guards herded him past the Inspector, shoved him forward into the center of the floor, and he staggered to a shaky halt.

"And our guest arrives," observed the Inspector, rubbing his hands over the smooth wooden arms of his chair with obvious pleasure. "Do you have anything to say, Monsieur, or should Mademoiselle Irene speak first?"

Erik did not even deign to glance at him; he was looking at me. I stared back at him, trying to communicate my love with my eyes; I did not want to blurt it out for all to hear and profane.

He swallowed, and murmured, "Dum vita est, spes est."

I sat back (I had leaned forward without realizing it), a tremulous smile flitting over my lips, as I remembered the book of Latin phrases he had given me for Christmas. The phrase he had spoken was one we had memorized together. _Where there is life, there is hope._ I felt a tiny gold light of reassurance slide down into my ribcage and nestle there against my heart.

The Inspector looked from Erik to me, frowning. "Latin, I presume. How I hate languages. Well, then, we may as well get on with things."

He clapped his hands together, and the guards began to swarm around their prisoner, but I leaned forward as far as I could, locking eyes with Erik. He looked back at me, waiting, even as Linnet took a long knife off the shelf from behind him, clicking her tongue.

"Omnia vincit amor," I whispered. _Love conquers all. _"Aut viam inveniam aut faciam."

_I will either find a way or make one._

"Can we _please_ speak in a language everyone understands?" demanded the Inspector.

I ignored him, watching as the corner of Erik's mouth quirked upward in a half-smile.

"Hannibal? Really?"

"I couldn't think of a different one," I said, trying to sound offended, but failing at this so badly that it hurt and pulled at my throat, trying to drown me in inopportune tears. "Not about anything I _want_ to say."

Erik winced as one of the guards cut through the ropes around his wrists, but he kept his eyes on me. "I know, Irene. I know. You needn't say anything."

I stared at him, and felt my eyes filling with tears, brimming at the edges with burning water.

The guards forced him down into the chair, tying his wrists to the massive armrests and his ankles to the thick legs. Erik did nothing, did not even try to fight. Nicolas must have given him a drug to control him, to keep him weak and yielding. Otherwise he'd be on his feet, flinging these men around like so many toys; rushing to rescue me, flicking Nicolas and Linnet and the Inspector off like bothersome flies.

"So," the Inspector said, dryly, "is the unintelligible conversation concluded?"

He was referring to Erik and I. I looked at my love, asking him wordlessly if we had said enough. Erik nodded, still looking at me, and the Inspector smiled.

"Gag him," he said. "We don't want his screams echoing through the whole country."

* * *

><p>Martin stuffed a wad of cloth into Erik's mouth, and secured it by winding a strip of fabric around his head. Linnet, holding a small oblong box in both hands, stepped in front of Erik, barring my view of him. I gripped my hands together and waited, my heart pounding uneasily, my mouth as dry as ash.<p>

"Such a pity," the Inspector observed, as Linnet opened the lid of her box, "that it had to come to this. Hansen - tie Mademoiselle Irene's wrists - but not behind the chair. I don't want her shoulder injured further."

Hansen stepped forward: took my wrists in one of his hands, and took a rope from the table.

"It doesn't have to," I said, "it doesn't have to be like this. Linnet, if you'll just talk to me – don't hurt him, please. Please don't. You want to kill me, than kill _me!"_

Linnet half-turned towards me, the needles in the box glimmering with the movement. "You killed my love," she said, her face rigid and cold, like that of an ancient Greek goddess. "I will take from you what you took from me."

"No!" I cried. "No! _I_ was the one who killed Luke! I killed him, not Erik! Kill me!"

Hansen finished tying my wrists together and let them fall into my lap, then came to stand behind my chair.

"I'd _love_ to," Linnet snapped, "but that is Nicolas' job. First we kill this – this _Erik_ you love. Then we kill you."

"I beg to differ," the Inspector said, his voice quiet. "Mademoiselle Irene will not be harmed."

I barely heard him. "I'll do anything," I said, begging her now, pleading. "Anything. You can torture me, Linnet, don't you want that? Torture me instead of him."

"Be quiet!" she snarled, the box shaking in her hands. "I want to torture _him_! I _will _torture him!"

"Patience, Linnet," the Inspector said. "Let Mademoiselle Irene speak. Remember, she loves him. As you once loved Luke."

Linnet stamped her foot like a child, and the blue box writhed between her fingers. "I know, I know, I know!"

She spun around, the skirt of her gown swirling with the motion. The dark red cloth – and that was why she had worn it, wasn't it – reminded me of blood.

Nicolas, who had been silent for the past fifteen minutes, stepped from his place in the corner and came to stand next to me, folding his hands behind his back. I stiffened, hating his every movement – couldn't he see I hated it! He was so incredibly similar to Luke, so much like Garmin that I wanted to scream and run, but I could not.

Linnet had set up a little wooden worktable next to Erik: on it sat a tall, thin vial, a few pieces of gauze, and an empty decanter. She selected a long needle from her box, reached for the slender vial, and inserted the needle into it, twisting the needle for a long second. Then, with a murmur of satisfaction, she withdrew it.

A thin film of black liquid clung to the metal, painting the silver ebony: I wondered what was on it. Surely not poison – surely she would only hurt him first –

Slowly, with deliberation, Linnet turned to Erik, tilted his head to the side with a twist of her hand, and thrust the needle down into the place where his neck met his shoulder.

For a moment, there was no reaction from him, only a slight widening of the eyes.

And then, as whatever was on the needle contaminated his bloodstream, Erik made a muffled noise through the gag, a horrible groaning cry. He squeezed his eyes shut.

A tiny tear trickled from the corner of his left eye.

* * *

><p>He began to convulse: his body jerked back against the chair, and then strained up against the ropes, his breathing short and chaotic. His tortured muscles spasmed again, and again, and again; I fought madly against Hansen, who had wrapped a thick hand around my throat to hold me down. He was too strong; and my hands were so wrapped with rope that I could not even scratch him with my fingernails. I could not get to Erik; I could not help him; I could not do anything.<p>

I wasn't even able to speak: my vocal cords seemed to have withered. My voice was gone.

The seconds passed like minutes, the minutes like hours; but at long last the Inspector cleared his throat, and my heart leaped.

"I believe you should move on, Linnet," he said. "We wouldn't want to wear him out already. You promised me two days."

Linnet, who had been watching Erik with something akin to joy, clenched her hands fiercely at her sides.

"Already?"

It was a cry of misery.

"Yes," Nicolas said. "You'll kill him if you continue like this. Give him the antidote. Or, rather, since you seem so determined to kill him, I'll do it."

He crossed the room in short, jerky strides, reached for a vial from the recessed shelves, and uncapped it. "Needle."

Linnet dug another needle from her box and handed it to him, her anger evident in every movement.

Nicolas slid the needle into his vial, drew it back out, and jammed it into Erik's other shoulder.

The shuddering convulsions stopped at once: Erik let out a long breath through the gag and sagged back against the chair. I stopped fighting Hansen and blinked hard, struggling to see him through the mist in my eyes. _Please be alright, Erik. Please. Please._

When he opened his eyes, I knew immediately that he had come back from a dark, terrifying place – it was as if he had been pulled into the ugliest memory of his past: so grim and haunted were his eyes. I bit back a sob, holding my breath so that if he spoke, if he made any sound, I would hear it.

Nicolas tossed the used needle onto the table, and Erik flinched away from him, reacting to the noise as though it was the bang of a gun. For a moment he seemed disoriented – his eyes flickered from Nicolas to Linnet to the Inspector in quick succession – and then his eyes rested on me.

"Erik," I said, brokenly, as Hansen let go of my throat.

Erik looked at me, really looked at me, and suddenly there was a fire in his eyes that grew and grew, stronger and brighter and bolder until I knew he knew who I was, and what I was to him.

I bit my lip and stared back, willing him to stay with me, to continue fighting the pain and stay with me.

Linnet, scowling, looked from Erik to me. "She is bothering me, Inspector."

"Mademoiselle Irene will remain," the Inspector said. "Remember our bargain. Now – begin again, will you? I do not want to stay up all night."

Erik closed his eyes.

* * *

><p>"There are several places in the human body where inserting even a small object, such as a needle, can produce great pain," Linnet informed us, pacing back and forth before Erik's chair. "For instance – the skin under the fingernails is incredibly sensitive. Watch."<p>

Pressing down on Erik's hand, she caught one of his fingers with her own and slipped a thin metal strip in a quick motion under his index fingernail.

Erik did nothing, did not even gasp, but I saw the muscles in his neck form into thick cords as he swallowed.

"We understand," I snarled, "we understand! Stop it! Stop it!"

"But I am not done at all," Linnet said, her voice cheery. "I've only just begun."

And with a jerk of her wrist, she drove the metal deeper into Erik's hand – he shuddered.

"Really, Linnet, you are distressing Mademoiselle Irene," said the Inspector disapprovingly. "Perhaps you should try something less… barbaric?"

Linnet savagely yanked the strip back out, bringing a thin flow of blood with it that spattered onto the floor and over her bare feet. Speckles of red dotted her pale skin. "You are so picky," she complained, furious. "I can't even have my fun. Why do you care so much about _her?_"

The Inspector seemed to swell a little in his chair. "Do as I say, or regret it, Linnet."

"Alright," she snapped, and threw the metal strip down with a clatter; it slid across the floor in a whirl of silver. "Needles again, then. I've been wanting to try the bullet ant venom."

"No," I said, hardly speaking at all, so dry was my throat. "No, don't. Please. Give it to me instead. Please."

Linnet turned to look at me, almost as if she was considering this. There was a long pause. Erik opened his eyes – they were nearly black now – and mumbled something through his gag.

"What is it?" Linnet asked, almost singing, as she turned back to her prisoner. "What do you want to say?"

With quick hands, she jerked the cloth from his mouth and let it fall to the floor.

Erik coughed, swallowed, and gasped, "Don't listen to her. Hurt me instead." His eyes found mine; they read: _Do not ask for pain. I will suffer. Not you. I won't let them hurt you. _

I stared back at him, numbly, sick to my core. _But I love you._

"Well, the man has spoken," the Inspector said, rubbing his hands together in glee. "Yes, he has made his case. What do you say to that, Linnet?"

Linnet smiled, a dead, mirthless widening of her lips, and looked at me. But she was speaking to Erik. "Very well, if you insist, Erik dear. But first I'd like to see what's behind that mask."

Nicolas, who had been leaning against the left bookcase, looked up with interest. The Inspector brightened, and the men around the room edged closer, their feral eyes morbidly curious.

"I've been wondering about it for quite some time," the Inspector admitted. "But I thought you'd like to be the one to unmask him, Linnet. I don't suppose you know what your lover looks like, Mademoiselle Irene?"

"I do," I said. "And I love him."

"From the sound of that, it must be rather bad," the Inspector said, leaning forward. "Go on, then, Linnet. Take it off."

Linnet, thrilled at having an audience, gazed around the room at all the rapt faces, her lips slightly parted. "Very well," she breathed. "I will."

And she reached down with both hands and lifted the half mask away.

* * *

><p>Their response was to be expected; I did not care. Erik simply sat there, waiting, his expression implacable. I gazed back at him, ignoring the jeers and gasps and sounds of disgust.<p>

Our eyes met, and he flicked his away, down to the ground near my feet. I stared at him, trying to understand what he was saying, but I couldn't comprehend anything except for the blood on his shoulders. How badly was he hurt? What had that drug done to him?

He glanced up at me again, using only his eyes, then looked down at my feet.

I looked down.

The thin metal strip Linnet had used lay inches away from my toes: if I stretched, I could reach it. Linnet had forgotten it. She was dancing around Erik, cavorting, her dress shimmering in the torchlight, her face fanatical. Nicolas stood in the corner, his arms crossed, focused on the back of the room, his expression distant.

And the Inspector had gotten to his feet, oblivious: he went towards Erik, one hand reaching out to trace the lowest scar.

This shook me with disgust – how could he _dare _to touch him! But it was my chance, and I had to take it: I wiggled my foot forward, caught the metal strip under my toes, and, with more wiggling, concealed the file under my foot. The metal was cold and sticky on my bare skin; sticky with Erik's blood.

"Alright, enough," the Inspector said, stepping back from Erik, his head bent momentarily to his hands, as if marveling at the horror of the scarred skin they had touched. "Linnet, I have a request."

"A request?" said Linnet, halting in her circle around Erik's chair. "What?"

"Use the whip next," the Inspector said, rubbing his hands together, the small stubby fingers writhing against each other like worms. "It's my favorite."

I paled as Linnet reached up for the cat o'nine tails. Its black ends glittered with splintered glass.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Nicolas glance sharply down at my foot.

Involuntarily, I followed his gaze, and saw to my horror that an edge of the metal strip was visible. I needed it - it was my only chance for cutting through the ropes around my feet. There were no other weapons close enough to me, nor would there be. Hastily, I wriggled my toes around until the metal strip was covered completely, but there was no reason too. I knew Nicolas would tell.

"Nicolas, help me cuff him to the wall," Linnet said, her voice rough with eagerness. "And the rest of you – stop gawking and help!"

Dimly, I saw Hansen pass the table and go to Linnet; saw them heave Erik upright and push him towards the opposite wall.

Nicolas raised his blue eyes to mine. I could see the knowledge in them. All he had to do was say a few words, and my only hope would crumble. I held my breath, waiting for him to expose me. When he did, I would not get another chance – the Inspector would have my hands tied and the file taken away.

Nicolas' blue eyes traveled from mine to the place where Luke's scar had been. I saw him breathe in and out. One breath, then another.

He turned away to Linnet, stepped to her side.

"That chain?" he asked, his voice calm. "It's too rusty. You should use another."

I stared unseeingly at the left bookshelf, at the place where Nicolas had been standing. Why hadn't he said anything?

What was his plan?

There was a clink of metal links: the sound of despair. Linnet laughed in triumph; the Inspector echoed it, the ringing tones of madness spiraling higher and higher. Nicolas was silent.

* * *

><p>But when the whip descended upon Erik's defenseless, naked back, I forgot everything else.<p> 


	28. Chapter 28: Les Menteurs

_I know the last few chapters have been dark; they will be so for a while longer. I'm sorry about it, but there is really no way around it. They have been as difficult for me to write as they have been for you to read. But don't worry - there will be happiness later; and it will be sweeter because of the darkness._

_:) I'm done preaching now, so go on and read the next chapter._

_And thank you for the wonderful - yet sad - reviews! I am extremely thankful._

* * *

><p>It was dark in the dining hall, dark except for the two candles on the table behind my chair. They cast fragile pools of light that did nothing to dispel the darkness, the ominous blackness that coiled around the chair legs and turned the bookshelves into hulking monsters. Vaguely, I wondered if it was night. There was no way to tell; the dining hall was practically a mausoleum – cold, dank, smelly, and entirely lacking in windows.<p>

But if I squinted, I could just make out the smears of sludgy dark liquid on the wooden boards, the streaks of blood under the metal cuffs suspended from dirty links in the stone wall. Erik had hung there, his arms stretched up over his head, his wrists locked in the manacles, his toes brushing the floor. And the whip had lashed his flesh red; had stripped skin and tissue and muscle from bone.

Afterward he had been taken from the wall and given water. They had cleaned the wounds (wounds that had destroyed other, older scars); patted them dry; painted them with a clear pain-reducing cream. Then they had half-marched, half-dragged him from the room, hauling him off to the cells downstairs.

Linnet had stood shaking in the pool of his blood and skin, her chest heaving. Her arms were trembling with the effort it had taken to wield the whip; her legs shook beneath her, the long skirt of her dress swaying. I waited for her to collapse.

When she dropped towards the ground, Nicolas had caught her under the arms and taken her out. Two guards had followed them from the room.

The Inspector had risen wearily from his chair and nodded to Hansen, who uncurled his hot hands from my shoulders. After I had nearly choked myself to death trying to get to Erik, he had taken the less evil of two paths and released my throat to grip my shoulders instead.

The burning pain in my left shoulder was nothing compared to what Erik had felt under the brutal force of the whip; I had not cared that Hansen's fingers dug into my arm with more strength than necessary, nor that the gash had begun to bleed again.

But the Inspector did – as Hansen let go, he saw the blood on my shoulder and his face darkened. The taller man shrugged, indicating his inability to do anything else, but I could see the tension in every line of his body. The Inspector terrified him.

"Martin, bring Alphonse," the Inspector commanded, finally looking away from him. "Hansen, go stand in the corner."

Hansen lumbered away to the bookshelf, found the corner, and halted, his back to us. Apparently he was taking a timeout.

The Inspector, satisfied, nodded politely at me, his face a mask of sympathy. "I am terribly sorry for your pain, Mademoiselle Irene."

Was there anything I could say in response to such a stupid, heartless sentiment? Could I say anything to the man responsible for all of this? Was it even possible to speak after Erik's ordeal?

But I discovered I could. Outrage and terror had given me strength.

* * *

><p>"I don't want your pity, Inspector," I said, and found that my voice was calm. "I want you to free Erik. You cannot let this barbaric treatment of him continue. I will do anything, anything, if you release my friends."<p>

"Even join my group of criminals?" the Inspector asked, widening his eyes.

"Yes. I said anything. Please let them go." It didn't take much for the words to come; I knew I had to save Erik, and I also knew that I would find a way to escape the Inspector's clutches if he accepted my deal. I had done so before; I could do so again.

The Inspector stood there for a moment, his dark eyes unblinking. "Are you sure, Mademoiselle Irene? I assure you, this trap will not be as easy for you to get out of. It is very unlike the last time we met at the hotel. I have more connections; more men; more twists in my plan than you will ever know."

"I don't care. If you release my friends, I'll stay."

But only until I found a way out, only until I cut through the ropes around my ankles and located the nearest window. After that, I would vanish like smoke on the wind.

"Stop."

I had been gazing at the embroidery on his black jacket – I had no idea that men actually bought clothing with swirly vines and leaves sewn in white thread on their clothes – but at the Inspector's curt sentence, I looked at his face.

"Stop fooling with me, Mademoiselle," he said. "We both know you are agreeing to this for the wrong reasons. After your friends are disposed of, we will see what you choose then. Your friends are merely instigators for you at the moment; people to persuade you to a course of action you do not actually wish to take. Their deaths will allow you to see clearly."

The mood in the room changed instantly; the conversation had slipped from heavy banter into idealistic speeches. I was on the brink of a cliff now, and everyone knew it.

"Stop?" I said. "Stop? I think _you_ should stop, Inspector. I promise you, sometime soon we are all going to escape from this little house of yours, and you will be very, very sorry. You will be sorry for the rest of your pathetic, lonely life."

"Will I," said the Inspector, coolly. "Pray continue; you fascinate me."

I clasped my hands together, crushed them in my lap.

"Let me ask you a question, Inspector. Do you know you are a spineless, wormy, hateful little man? Do you know how weak and _puny _you are? You are nothing. You are only evil, and evil will never conquer good. Whatever you do to us, to Erik and my friends and I; whatever you do to us will only make us _stronger_."

When I finished, I was shaking with my rage, was trembling with it, my face flushed with heat, and the Inspector had moved closer, staring down at me as though I was a sort of beast.

"Clear the room," he said, very softly.

The men looked at one another. One said, "Are you certain-"

"_Clear the room!" _the Inspector shouted, his eyes bulging and bloodshot. "Get out!"

His men fled, vacating the dining hall in less than two seconds' time. Hansen, who had been furthest away from the door, hadn't reached it when the Inspector spoke again.

"Wait," he said, and he took a step back from me. "Hansen, stay here."

Hansen obeyed, standing next to the door like a sentinel.

The Inspector picked up his wineglass from the table and drank. I watched him, wary. What would he do next? Why had he cleared the room, if not to hurt me? But of course he could have hurt me with his men here – perhaps I had enraged him so thoroughly that he did not want his men to see him lose control.

When he set the glass back down, his eyes were serene.

"You managed to provoke me," he said, stepping back to me. "I am impressed."

"It wasn't difficult," I said. "Release my friends."

"You know I can't do that," the Inspector rejoined. "I have a bargain with Linnet and Nicolas. I cannot break it. It would be highly impolite."

He was toying with me. I looked away, concentrating on the pain in my shoulder. If I infuriated him again, I might not be so lucky.

The door creaked open: Alphonse peered around it. "May I enter?"

"Come sew up Irene's shoulder again," the Inspector said, nodding. "_Hansen_ mangled it."

His tone was one of a father speaking of his erring child. Hansen assumed an expression of penitence; or at least I thought he did – his facial muscles seemed undeveloped from lack of use; all he could really do was stare grimly into space.

"And after you have finished, Doctor, Irene and I are going to have a little discussion."

He was using my first name only; it was a very bad sign, and I did not like the idea of a 'discussion'. Discussions usually meant arguments, and arguing with a psychopath (especially one with an unlimited supply of men, and a crazy, equally psychopathic woman) was an extremely bad idea indeed.

* * *

><p>Later, after Alphonse had fixed my shoulder and bandaged it up again, the Inspector told Hansen to bind my hands behind the chair and dismissed the doctor.<p>

"I apologize for the pain beforehand, Mademoiselle Irene," he began, twirling his wine glass in one hand, "but I am forced to do so, as I would like to leave you here tonight without guards. My men can be rather… unprincipled."

This was such a great shock that I was forced to stifle a mocking laugh.

"I hadn't noticed," I said, clenching my teeth together as Hansen whipped out a serrated blade and began to saw through the ropes around my hands, in order to retie them behind the chair. So the file Erik had risked telling me about would be useless after all – I could not reach down and use it to free my ankles if my arms were trapped behind me.

Unless…

"I'd like to use the powder room," I said, and Hansen stopped sawing through the ropes.

He looked to his master – to my surprise, the Inspector nodded.

"I do hope you aren't planning anything, Mademoiselle Irene," he said, the easy smile (which I had thought was due to the wine) still on his face. "It would be foolish of you."

I shook my head, winced at the sudden jolt of pain in my shoulder – Alphonse hadn't given me any numbing medication, per the Inspector's instructions – and said, "No. I wouldn't dream of it, Inspector."

"Untie her legs, Hansen," the Inspector said, his eyes drifting lazily to his servant. "Then escort her to the ladies' room."

When Hansen finished cutting through the ropes, I stood, swaying, and dropped to one knee before he could catch me. Slipping my hand under my foot, the movement hidden by my long skirt, I wrapped my fingers around the file. My head hung down as if I was close to fainting.

Hansen took me by the right shoulder and tugged me to my feet, almost lifting me off the floor, and I let the file fall into my left sleeve as I stood.

The Inspector made a soft noise from his chair; a noise of pity. "When you come back, Mademoiselle, remind me to feed you. It completely slipped my mind. You haven't eaten all day, have you?"

"No," I said, breathless from my exertion. "I haven't. I'll be sure to remind you."

* * *

><p>I returned to the dining hall feeling slightly better: I had drunk three handfuls of water (there were no glasses in the bathroom), and the quenching of my thirst had revived me to the point that I began to think clearly again. Obviously, calling the Inspector a coward was not the way to go about escaping his house. I would not do it again.<p>

When I entered the room, I saw that my chair had been pulled up to the table – there was a tray of steaming food sitting before it. I tugged my arm from Hansen's grasp, suddenly very hungry.

The lone, massive ceramic bowl on the tray held oddly shaped noodles. I sat down, staring. What was it?

It smelled good, like mushrooms and spices: I picked up a fork and stabbed one of the oval-shaped blobs.

"Pelmeni," said the Inspector.

"Bless you," I said through a mouthful of noodle-stuffed mushrooms – it tasted somewhat like ravioli. The mushrooms were still hot, hot enough to burn my tongue, but I didn't care. I chewed, swallowed quickly, and stuffed another noodle into my mouth.

The Inspector seemed offended. "It's the name of the dish, Mademoiselle. _Pelmeni._ A traditional Russian meal."

"So you're Russian," I said, pausing before I took another bite. "It's interesting that you lack an accent. But that doesn't matter. Are my friends being fed?"

"No," the Inspector said, sitting down in his chair. Hansen wavered behind him, waiting for another command. "Unless you count stale bread and old carrots as food."

I thought of Erik, his back lacerated, his hands shaking as he tried to chew stale, hard bread; of Antoinette, her mouth drawn downwards in disgust, her eyes worried as she watched Erik try to eat; of Nadir, still recovering from his poisoning.

I pushed the bowl away, finding that the food had turned to ashes in my mouth.

"So now you won't eat," the Inspector said, watching me. "I thought something like this would happen. Well, it is to be expected. Hansen, go tell the chef to prepare more food and to send it down to the prisoners."

Hansen trudged away to the door, opened it, and let it fall shut behind him with a crash.

"I shall have to replace that door if he keeps manhandling it," the Inspector observed. "How annoying. At least drink some water, Mademoiselle; I am sure your love wouldn't want you to die on his account."

"Don't presume to know what Erik would want me to do," I retorted, and looked pointedly away from the water glass. "You don't know him."

"Ah, you are angry tonight. And I can't think of any way to help you, Mademoiselle. You do know I am already stretching my bargain with Linnet by feeding her prisoners."

"I know you struck the bargain, not her. She's too stupid to have come up with such a plan, and Nicolas is too cowardly. Don't lie to me, Inspector; it's impolite."

The Inspector smiled another one of his face-twisting smiles and shifted in his chair. "I wouldn't dream of it, Mademoiselle. You are right; I came up with the plan and Linnet and Nicolas carried it out to perfection. They might have gone too far with the poisonings throughout Paris, but I knew you would see the connection between the victims and the masquerade."

I shook my head. "I did not. It was one of my friends."

"Which one?"

"If you are going to ask me questions," I said, "then I am going to ask you questions in return."

The Inspector propped his chin on his hand. "A fine idea. But both of us have to be truthful. Answer my question first."

"A woman," I said. "One of my female friends."

The Inspector shook his head. "Tell me her name."

I said, "Madame Martin."

"Liar," the Inspector chided me. "It was Madame Giry. Since you failed to answer that truthfully, you have to answer another before you ask me yours. Would you have killed Luke if he hadn't fallen on his sword?"

I was surprised at the question – I had thought he was going to ask me something about more current events. "I don't know what you mean."

"Let me rephrase: would you have killed Luke even if he didn't have a weapon?"

"Did I do so while in the Opera?" I countered. "Really, Inspector. I am not bloodthirsty."

The Inspector shrugged. "I don't know what you're capable of, Mademoiselle Irene. And neither do you. But you think you will only react with murder in self-defense."

"I did not_ murder_ him, Inspector. I fell to my knees; the sword flipped upwards, and he collapsed onto it. I did not kill him: he killed himself. Even if he hadn't, if I _had_ killed him, it would have been in self-defense and my actions would have been honorable. My turn to ask a question."

"Go ahead."

"How many of my friends are you holding here? Besides Erik?"

The Inspector smiled, and I felt my stomach drop. "Good question, Mademoiselle Irene. But one that I will not answer now."

"But you said-"

"I never said I would answer immediately, Mademoiselle. You only inferred it," he said, reaching over to set the wine glass down on the table. "Hansen, come bind the lady's hands and ankles."

The guard, who had returned a moment before, crossed the room to me and picked up the length of rope. The Inspector rose to his feet. "Some things, Irene, are best kept secret. _Abundans cautela non nocet__._"

_One can never be too careful._

It was Latin. He had been lying.

* * *

><p>I stared at him as he swallowed the last of his drink. Hansen took my arms and pulled them back behind the chair: the file slipped out of my sleeve and clattered onto the floor, the noise as loud as an explosion.<p>

"What is that?" the Inspector asked, his voice slightly surprised, and set the wine glass down on the table. "Pick it up, Hansen, and bring it to me."

The thug did so. The Inspector turned the file over in his hands, a series of expressions passing over his face: amusement and anger, followed by derision.

"I suppose you wanted to escape," he said, at last, and dropped the file onto his chair. "Well, I didn't expect you to do anything else. I applaud you for your effort, Mademoiselle Irene. But it has failed."

Hansen turned the chair around, having finished tying my wrists – the Inspector nodded agreeably at this – and fastened my ankles to the wooden legs.

As the thug followed his master to the door, the Inspector stopped and turned to look at me.

"Another point, Irene, that I forgot to bring up."

"Yes?"

"I wanted to do this correctly."

"This?" I asked, wondering if he was talking about the ropes or something.

"No, my entire plan; the one I had Linnet and Nicolas perform. You see, before one can use a sword, it has to be molded in the fire – molded, and broken, and twisted. Then, and only then, will it become a weapon worthy of use. Suffering is essential to character. And your friends' deaths – well, it is an easy way to break someone, especially a woman."

_He was going to kill Erik. _

And I realized this had been his plan all along. The Inspector had never wanted me to simply give in to save my friends. He wanted to crush me, so that when everyone I loved was gone, he could be the one to change me, to make me into the person he wanted me to be. An evil, destructive monster, bent solely to his commands.

The Inspector nodded, holding my eyes. "I see you have figured it out. And I think that would be enough to break you. If it does not, I'll simply have to kill the rest of the people you love. But we can wait until Erik dies."

He paused for a moment, and went on, as if he had just thought of something: "Besides, he is worthless to me – he's been broken so many times that his character is basically unchangeable. But you – you will break. And then you will be mine."

"Wait!" I said, as he made as if to leave. "Wait. Don't kill Erik – I have something to bargain with."

The Inspector raised an eyebrow. "You do? What is it? I do not want money."

"I know where your compass is," I said. "I'll tell you where to find it if you don't kill Erik."

There was a pause. I held my breath.

"Really," the Inspector said. "I wonder… But even that is not enough to sway me from my desire, Mademoiselle Irene. And after I finish with you, you will tell me where to find it anyway. I don't want it as much as I want you. But it was a good try."

He turned and went through the door; Hansen followed.

The door shut behind them, the small noise echoing through the dining hall.

I was alone.

I had to save Erik, but I had no idea how.

* * *

><p>Linnet entered the room an hour or so later. I knew it was her because of the swishing sounds her satin dress made as she walked.<p>

She was flanked by Nicolas: both of them came around the table at the same moment, and Linnet smiled down into my face. She looked considerably better than she had earlier: she was no longer trembling, and her skin was smooth, unlined. She wore a brilliantly white dress.

"Good evening, Mademoiselle," she said.

I said nothing.

Her smile flickered, and fell away into a scowl.

"_Good evening,"_ she repeated, and Nicolas raised his eyebrows.

"Perhaps yelling at our guest is not the best approach," he suggested. "Why don't you back away, Linnet? And put that down."

He was talking about the knife – she had pulled one from her pocket. I noticed that the handle was dark with dried blood. My stomach flipped, and flipped again. _Was this the one she had used on Erik?_

Linnet, still scowling, let Nicolas tug her away from me and take the knife. "We thought you should know why you're here," she explained, glaring. "Nicolas said it would be worse that way."

"I did," Nicolas agreed. "But also informative. Perhaps you should start at the beginning, Linnet?"

The blond woman lifted her chin and stared at me, her eyes flat. "Fine. It happened like this. I met John six years ago in Paris. He was very handsome."

And at long last, Linnet began to tell her story.


	29. Chapter 29: La Mort

_Venture Wood, I do **not** think you are a murderer. You do not have to worry. I find your reviews darkly amusing. :)_

_The same goes for the rest of you - minus the "darkly" part - if you're confused about my previous comments, just read Venture's reviews for the two previous chapters._

_I am warning you, everyone:  
><em>

_This chapter is VERY depressing._

_But read it anyways.  
><em>

* * *

><p>"He was very courteous, too," Linnet continued – I saw Nicolas frown slightly at this – "and we were <em>instantly<em> drawn to each other. The first time he kissed me was at the Palais Garnier."

She paused to let me admire the coincidence. I pressed my lips together and did not.

"And then, later, he offered to marry me," she said, smiling dreamily. "He promised me the most beautiful engagement ring: white gold with a single sapphire."

I started. That had been the very ring Luke was going to give _me_; the one Erik had stolen. Luke had been even more of a selfish spendthrift than I'd thought.

"And where is it now?" I inquired. "Seeing as you obviously don't have it anymore."

Linnet, oddly enough, continued to smile. "He said that he wanted to wait before he gave it to me. He said he wanted to make sure I loved him as much as he loved me. But then -"

"Then?" prompted Nicolas from his place against the bookshelf. "Go on."

"Then he met _Claire_," Linnet said, spitting the name out with hatred. "And he left me for her, told me that he loved her more. So I took my revenge."

"What did you do?" I said, my heart quickening. "Did you – were you-"

"Yes," Linnet said, and a cruel, delighted smile touched her lips. "I was the one who convinced John to kill her."

_No._ But it made sense, didn't it? Linnet had been the other catalyst for Claire's death, the straw that broke the camel's back. For Claire had been planning to leave Luke already, because he had slept with another woman – at least, that was what I had determined from Luke's wild confession while he was under the effect of Erik's truth serum.

"Why did he do it?" I said. "He had no reason to. She wouldn't have hurt him. She would have only left."

"No one leaves John," Linnet said, her tone harsh. "No one. And he was angry – so I told him how to kill her, and then he promised to meet me in Rome the following year, after he gathered enough money to move. I left for Italy."

"And then, I suppose," I said, wanting to hurt her, "news of his death arrived."

Linnet's face whitened; she snatched for the bust of Beethoven, probably intending to open the recess and pull out a weapon, but Nicolas stepped in front of her. His lip curled as he glanced at me; it was a smirk, but not a pleasant one.

"Linnet," he said, "I thought we had an agreement about this. If Irene makes you angry, you are supposed to leave the room to calm down."

Linnet twisted her hands together, one foot tapping frantically on the floor under her white skirt. "But she makes me very angry, Nicolas. And it is difficult to remain calm."

"Oh," I said, sweetly, "but you have made _me_ very angry, Linnet."

"I can kill him," she said, "I can kill your love, and you won't have him any longer; do you want that? Do you want him dead? I can do it!"

I shook my head, biting my tongue. I did not want this, not at all. I had to keep my mouth shut even if she did not.

Nicolas watched me, his blue eyes curiously blank. Then he spoke. "Continue, Linnet; you haven't finished yet."

"Well," she said, "I went to Paris, and while I was there, I ran into Nicolas. He was looking for you too; he was planning to kill you. I joined forces with him and we began to figure out how to hurt you. We thought it would be better if you suffered before you died."

She paused, thinking, her porcelain-pale face cold and remote.

"And then I met the Inspector," Nicolas broke in, growing weary of the long pauses. "Linnet introduced me to him; she had met him while on one of her crime sprees. He offered us considerable amounts of money if we carried out our plan under his terms. After a long period of bargaining-" he glanced sideways at Linnet "- a _very_ long period, we agreed. And thus our work begun."

"So why don't you kill me now?" I said, to Linnet, knowing she would be the one to do it if she could. "You have the knife; you have me tied up. You can kill me, and let the others go…"

I had trailed off because I had realized my mistake – admitting my desire to let Erik and my friends go was tantamount to telling Linnet not to kill them. And I knew what she was about to say.

"Oh," she said, her blue eyes very wide, "but you don't think I won't kill Erik because you love him, do you? Or your other friend? I think not. Inspector!"

_My other friend? Was there only one other person down there with Erik?_

The door to the hallway swung open; the Inspector entered.

"I think it's time now," Linnet said, and her grin spread until it seemed to reach her ears. "We're done with our story. It's time to kill Erik."

* * *

><p>The Inspector had exaggerated about his "cells." The single room he deemed his prison was long, bare, cold, and mostly empty. The walls and floor were made of stone. The many torches that filled the walls shone so brightly that the table in the center gleamed like wet brown paint; the iron manacles clamped to it glowed like new silver.<p>

Erik sat in the far corner, chained to the wall, his head lowered – and next to him sat Nadir - only Nadir. The Count and Antoinette were safe.

Nadir looked up at me, his dark eyes gleaming with a strange mixture of recognition and sadness. I gazed back, trying to express my sorrow for the position I had put him in. If only I hadn't sought revenge for Claire – but it was too late now, and I had nothing, no way to free him.

I looked at Erik, wishing he would lift his head, but he did not. Perhaps he was asleep, exhausted from his ordeal; perhaps he didn't know I was here.

I caught my breath as the whole meaning of why we were here crashed down upon my head: Linnet was going to kill him, to _kill_ him, and I couldn't stop them! I couldn't help him. Oh, God, he was going to die and I could do _nothing_ to stop it!

Hansen pushed me down into the only chair – a marble one, carved with leaping deer, but made no move to tie me up – the Inspector had shaken his head when Hansen pulled out the rope.

It was a mistake on his part.

* * *

><p>I reached forward and caught hold of the knife in Hansen's belt, the one he had taken from Linnet hours earlier, and wrenched it out, rising to my feet in the same movement.<p>

Hansen swung his huge hand at my head – I ducked under his arm and slashed hard, reaching out toward his chest – and the knife miraculously connected.

A gush of blood, a grunt of pain, and Hansen stumbled away, red spreading down his shirt. A hand caught my arm: I struck out with the knife, whirling around, and Nicolas reeled back just in time to avoid losing a finger. His blue eyes were narrowed. I swiped at him again, and he stepped back, pulling out his own knife.

The other thugs waited, plainly unsure about whether to join a knife fight. Usually such things entailed considerable amounts of blood. The Inspector waited against the wall, his fat arms crossed.

Nicolas circled towards me; I circled away, watching his feet and hands in case he decided to strike. The knife was loose and easy in his hand, and his body seemed relaxed. It was clear he was an expert, and I knew eventually he'd disarm me. But I couldn't get to Erik, or hurt anyone else even if I tried. The thugs had formed a circle, and all of them were holding weapons.

So I had to disarm Nicolas first. And then I would have to work my way through the others, one by one, cutting and slashing and swiping until I got to Erik and Nadir.

But even as I thought this, circling away from Nicolas, my hand sweaty on the knife, there was a scuffle in the far corner where the prisoners were. I stiffened.

And then came Linnet's voice. "Put down the knife, Irene, or I'll kill him right now."

* * *

><p>I glanced behind me: Linnet had found another knife, and was holding it to Erik's throat, her other hand fastened into his dark hair to bare his neck. His eyes were on me; his face was gray. I knew he would want me to fight; he would want me to try to escape and let him die.<p>

I let the knife fall to the ground.

Linnet lowered hers.

"Bravo," the Inspector said, applauding; his slow, stupid clapping filling the air. "A fine show from all of you; especially Mademoiselle Irene. But I think it is over now. Someone get Alphonse. Hansen needs medical attention for his wound."

Nicolas, having tossed my bloody knife away, came towards me on cat feet, carrying a loop of rope in his pale hands. I backed away, stumbled over someone's foot, and sat down hard in the marble chair. Nicolas half-smiled.

He wrapped the rope around my waist first, and then bent to tie my ankles. When he straightened to tie my hands, he bent his head momentarily towards my ear, and whispered:

"_Trust me."_

I tensed, then forced myself to stare blankly ahead in case the Inspector was watching. Was he going to help me? Was he going to help Erik?

But he said nothing more, only finished tying my hands behind me and moved away. The Inspector cleared his throat and held out a key.

"Unchain him."

Linnet snatched the key from him before Martin could reach it, smiled sharply, and spun away to go to her prisoner. I saw Erik stiffen as she fiddled with the manacles around his ankles and wrists, her long blond hair hanging in his face. Everything in me struggled for release, my heart keening wildly within me; I had to go to him, had to run to him and save him.

She stood back as the thugs brought him to the table, laid him down – on his _back_ – his poor, lacerated back – and locked him into the manacles. Erik lay still, not fighting the chains, and gazed up at the ceiling.

I struggled involuntarily to get free; the ropes cut into my skin, burning like fire, and the Inspector sighed.

"Untie her, Nicolas – let her say her goodbyes."

Nicolas cut through the ropes, and I went to Erik.

* * *

><p>I curled over him, hiding him from the staring thugs and the Inspector with my arms and hair, and whispered, "Erik-"<p>

But it was all I could get out. My throat closed up, and tears streamed down my cheeks and spattered onto the wood and on his face. With a shaking hand, I wiped my tears off his skin, his dear brown skin with the scars that I loved.

He lifted his head slightly, his green eyes bright, and murmured, "I love you, Irene. Don't cry for me; don't cry. It will be all right."

"They're going to kill you," I whispered. "I am so sorry. I am so sorry. Please don't… don't leave me, Erik. Please, don't die. I love you; I love you."

"I love you too," Erik breathed, and he brought his lips to mine.

I poured everything into that kiss, every sorrow and every joy and every hope we had ever known, and he did the same. For a long, aching moment, there was nothing but us – there was no room, no Inspector, no Linnet or Nicolas or guards – there was only Erik and I, and we were together.

* * *

><p>Rough hands pulled me away from him, thrust me away, and I fought to get back, but I could not. The thugs bore down on me, their thick muscles crowding me back into the marble chair, and I was forced into it.<p>

Martin tied me up; the Inspector ordered the lights dimmed, and Linnet sharpened her knife.

Nicolas came through the door – when had he left? – holding a vial of something in his hand, and a needle.

"Let me do it," he said, and there was viciousness, a clear vile hatred in his voice. "She killed my brother, Linnet. Let me kill him."

Linnet looked at the Inspector, pleading silently, but he nodded slowly. "He is right, Linnet. You've already have your fun. Let Nicolas do it."

Linnet threw the knife on the ground and raged, but to no avail. The thugs took hold of her arms and pulled her away from Erik, and Nicolas went to the table, inserted the needle into the vial. He raised it above Erik's neck.

The man I loved lay still on the table, his head tilted towards me. I could barely make out his features. I pulled on the ropes, banging my hands into the back of the chair, but the thick fibers held me still.

"Stop it!" I cried. "Please, Nicolas, if you ever loved anyone, you wouldn't do it! Please, don't kill him! Don't kill him. Don't."

In the corner, Nadir was struggling against his own chains, his mouth set and white.

Nicolas laughed, a high ringing sound of pain, and said, "I _did_ love someone, Irene. I loved my brother. And for his death, I will enact my revenge."

He plunged the needle into Erik's neck.

* * *

><p>When he pulled it out, Erik was spasming on the table: I saw the iron manacles cut into his wrists and bring forth twin lines of blood. His head lolled backwards; his eyes were clenched shut. Everything was trembling; his hands, his feet, his legs… And then, with a long rush of released air, he lay still.<p>

I waited for his chest to rise and fall.

He lay still.

There was no movement.

Ten seconds passed.

Twenty seconds.

Thirty.

One minute.

Erik did not breathe; did not move; did not breathe. He did not live.

And then there was only darkness.

* * *

><p>The ground was cold and damp beneath my cheek: I lay still, trying to figure out where I was and what had crushed me. I felt airy, odd. It seemed difficult to breathe.<p>

I opened my eyes.

I was in the Inspector's prison, on the floor. There was no one there, only the long table – and no, no, no, I couldn't look.

Nadir was not in the corner – the door was shut in the opposite wall –

I used the nearest wall to pull myself to my feet.

"Erik?" I whispered, and the room threw back the sound, mocking me. _Erik? Erik? Erikkk?_

I looked at the table.

"No! No! No, Erik, please, not this."

He was dead. I knew he was. His face was pale and set in the torchlight – the flames flickered over his features, making them dance – I ran forward and put a hand on his cheek.

It was cold.

* * *

><p>When the door creaked open fifteen minutes later, I did not lift my head from its place on Erik's silent chest. I wanted whoever had entered to kill me and get it over with. Quickly.<p>

"Move out of the way," hissed a low voice. "Get up, Irene, I'm trying to save him."

The words did not penetrate my brain, only the voice did – all I knew was that it was Nicolas speaking, and that I was going to kill him.

My hands were around his throat before he had time to do more than gasp. I squeezed hard, my fingernails digging into his skin, a peculiar red mist blinding my vision.

Nicolas kicked weakly at my shin, pushed at me with his hands, but I ignored this, still squeezing, knowing I was _almost _there.

"Irene! Stop it! Irene! Listen to me, Irene!"

Then there was blinding pain on the side of my head, and I let go with one hand, trying to ward the attacker off. I would _not_ be stopped; I would _not _yield. Nicolas would die.

But as Nicolas jerked in my grasp, his arms falling away from my shoulders, I finally realized whose voice it was.

"Nadir?"

"Let go of him," Nadir commanded, hovering somewhere to my left. "He's trying to help us. He can help Erik, Irene; _let_ _go_."

He tugged my other hand from Nicolas' neck and grabbed me by my shoulders, holding me up.

"It's alright," he said. "It's alright. He's going to help Erik. He's going to wake him up."

"He's dead," I sobbed. "Nadir, he's dead."

"Shh," Nadir whispered. "Shhh. He's not dead. Nicolas gave him something that mimics death. He has the antidote. He's going to wake him up."

He turned me around: Nicolas, gasping for breath, his neck already mottling purple and blue, had produced a needle and another vial. He pushed blond hair from his face, shoved the needle into the vial, drew it out again in a swift motion.

Then he sank the needle into Erik's arm, withdrew it, and stepped back.

I stared, unblinking, waiting. Waiting for Erik to breathe, to gasp, to lurch upright. To show that he was alive.

Then there was a cough, a hacking, breathless cough, and Erik's chest lifted, sank down, and lifted again. He opened his eyes, his green, alive eyes, coughed again, and said,

"Irene?"

Nadir let go of my shoulders. I ran to him.

* * *

><p>Later, Nicolas led us down the halls, hurrying before us with a single candle. Thugs lay strewn on the floor, unconscious. Nicolas had knocked them out on his way back to revive Erik.<p>

Erik was next to me, an arm around my shoulders; the other around Nadir's – he could hardly walk. We had to support him; I prayed that he wasn't so injured that he would not be able to recover completely.

"Why?" I said, to Nicolas. "Why did you do it?"

My throat was raw from crying; every now and then I'd press my face against Erik's shoulder to remind myself that he _was_ alive, that he wasn't lying on a table somewhere, not breathing. When I did, he'd whisper something to me.

This time he murmured: "I didn't know you actually knew how to wield a knife – you never demonstrated any prowess with it when you met me."

I laughed, but in a whisper. I didn't want to wake the Inspector or Linnet. According to Nicolas, both were asleep, worn out from being evil for nearly a day and a half – he had helped with that by spiking their drinks with sedatives before they went to bed – but I was loath to let my guard down.

Nicolas whispered, "Because I couldn't do it anymore. I couldn't let anyone else die."

"You killed four other people," Nadir said, his voice hard. "Four. I suppose you thought their lives didn't matter?"

"I did!" He caught himself and whispered, "I did. God, I know I did. But I had to get to Irene – and the Inspector wouldn't have it any other way."

I thought, _Coward._ _I would never have killed anyone to have __**my **__revenge. _

And then I felt sick. I had nearly killed Erik, nearly let him die because of my revenge for Claire. I had caused all of this. I was as much to blame as Nicolas.

In fact, probably more, because Nicolas had saved Erik's life.

"You know," Nicolas said, pushing open the door at the end of the hall – the night air streamed in, cold and dry over our faces, "I always knew there was something wrong with John. But I was the older brother, so I always stopped him before he did anything. But when he left – when he grew up – then I couldn't stop him anymore."

He led us through the darkness to the carriage, helped me and Nadir get Erik into the back, then tossed a heavy bag onto the opposite seat. "Supplies: money, food, water. And when I heard of Claire's death, I knew he had killed her. I knew it. But I was too much of a coward to go to the police. I stayed away from Paris for years."

Nadir climbed onto the box; Nicolas offered me a hand into the carriage, his blue eyes on mine. "When Linnet found me years later, when she told me who had killed my brother – she heard it was you from the Inspector long before I did – all I wanted was to kill you. Because I loved him, even though he was a monster."

He paused before shutting the door. "But you know what? When I started on that path to revenge, all I found was evil. And I became a monster too."

* * *

><p>As the carriage lurched away into the woods, I pressed a strip of cloth to Erik's hot forehead, wiping away the sweat there. We had arranged him so that he lay on his stomach, to protect his back from further injury. I was afraid to do anything but give him water – we had to get him to a doctor soon.<p>

With painful slowness, he propped himself up on his elbows, reached out and touched my face, just the tips of his burning fingers on my cheekbone.

"I'm sorry," he said. His voice was harsh with exhaustion. "I'm sorry about… all of this."

A tear slid down my cheek, but I wiped it away. "Don't, Erik. It wasn't your fault; it was never your fault. Don't apologize, please. I love you."

"I love you, Irene," Erik said, leaning forward to kiss my forehead, then to kiss the place under my eye where the tear had fallen. "We'll get out of this, and then we'll never come back again."

He wasn't referring only to the Inspector's house; he meant the land of revenge: the land of terror and turmoil and death. I nodded – I was done with revenge forever.

"What's that?" he said suddenly, looking through the right window. "Look."

I looked. Behind us, through the trees, there were flames. Bright, golden-red flames, reaching high into the purple-black sky. And then I knew: it was the house. The Inspector's house was on fire, and the people within were dying.

The carriage bounced to a halt, and Nadir pulled up the tiny window in the wall and pushed his head inside. "It's Nicolas. He blew up the house. He told me he would; he said it was the last thing he could do. His laboratory has dangerous chemicals inside."

"He's still inside?"

Nadir nodded. "He is. They're all dead."

He paused, then said, "We don't have to be afraid anymore."


	30. Chapter 30:  Amour et Haine

_And the happier chapters return..._

_Thank you for your reviews!_

_Enjoy!_

* * *

><p>We rode out of the forest a half hour later. The trees slid away into the darkness; and in the distance, its small pinpoints of light glowing from the many windows, was a town.<p>

* * *

><p>Nadir stopped the carriage, climbed down from his box (I could hear his boots thumping on the wooden boards) and opened my door. I held up a hand before he could speak, motioning with the other to Erik, who lay supine, his breathing noiseless in slumber.<p>

"He's asleep," I whispered. "And you know we can't stop, Nadir, it's too dangerous. We don't know if everyone actually died in the explosion."

Nadir frowned at Erik, and whispered back, "He needs a doctor."

"They bandaged his wounds. We can wait until we get farther away and we're certain we're safe."

"No, we should stop, Irene; I really think we should."

"What are you two arguing about?"

Erik had lifted his head from his arms, blinking tiredly up at us.

I sank down on the seat next to him (I had stood when the carriage stopped) and said, "We can't decide whether or not to stop at this town and find a doctor for you."

"We should stop," Nadir repeated. "You're not well, Erik."

Erik put his head back down, muffling his answer. "Alright, we can stop. But no hospitals. Let's go to an inn."

I glanced worriedly at Nadir – Erik _needed _a doctor – and he stared back at me, eyes wide. After a second he nodded.

"Alright, then… We'll stop at an inn." The rest of his statement he mouthed silently at me: "Then we'll find a doctor."

And he shut the carriage door and climbed back onto the box. The snap of a whip, a whinny from one of the horses, and we were off, bouncing towards the town and shelter.

* * *

><p>Nicolas had dropped a heavy gold purse into the bag he'd given us – it had probably been Linnet's, but I didn't care. Because inside the purse was a considerable amount of money; and in the very bottom, the chain crumpled around it in a broken spray of silver, was the diamond necklace.<p>

Erik, having propped himself up on his elbows again, raised his eyebrows a fraction as he gazed at the necklace. I had taken it from the purse and held it in the air, letting the bright bauble swing gently back and forth above the seat.

"Well, it will come in handy," I said, noting his indecision. "If we didn't need it so badly, I'd rather throw it out the window, with all the gory memories of that woman and Luke that are tied up in it."

"I guess we should keep it," Erik said, and leaned a little closer to me, close enough so that the heat of his skin warmed my cold face. "I don't suppose he left any extra shirts in there – or shoes for you."

Erik was still shirtless. I was still barefoot; I had been so ever since Linnet and Nicolas had dragged us down to the Inspector in the first place. I was sitting on the floor of the carriage – the other seat was too far away from Erik for my liking – my hand on the seat under his right shoulder. I didn't want to touch him, for fear even a caress would hurt: nearly every inch of his skin seemed either punctured or torn or bruised.

Digging through the bag produced only bottles of water, packets of bread and dried fruit, bandages, sedatives, a jar of pain-reducing cream, white thread, and needles. And then I saw a flash of white, and at the same moment, my fingers brushed something cold and hard.

"Your mask," I said, taking it out and handing it to him.

Erik took the white half-mask with a curl of his long fingers and fitted it back over the scarred side of his face. Then he let his hands fall away, and looked at me, one green eye surrounded by pure white, the other by brown.

"Well? Anything else in there?"

I shook my head, stuffed everything back inside, threw the bag onto the opposite seat, and dropped the necklace over my head. The diamond slipped down under my bodice, the silver chain was icy on my skin. I did want Erik to take off the mask, but I would give him time. He deserved it.

"We only have what's in there," I replied. "And the purse. Which is good if we want to continue sneaking from city to city, but I think we need to go back to Paris and retrieve our things."

Erik made a noise of dissent. "The Opera House? We can't go back now; the police will have our heads. They're still looking for you, and the Count. We should rendezvous with Madame Giry and Francis at that inn in Italy we picked out."

Before we had embarked upon our plan of revealing my true identity, S.C.O.W.L. had agreed that in the event of an extreme emergency that suddenly separated us, we'd meet at the _Locanda Ca' Le Vele_. It was a famous Italian inn, and one that housed many, many guests. We would register there under fake names, and in case the rest of us hadn't arrived, we would make regular trips to the gardens, where we, eventually, were supposed to meet the others. Every morning, at nine-fifteen, would be the agreed-upon meeting time; at least until everyone had arrived.

Because we would be in disguise, the Count had promised to wear a blue flower in his buttonhole. Madame Giry had told us she'd wear a purple scarf; Nadir said he'd put a yellow handkerchief in his top pocket. Erik was supposed to wear a red cravat, and I had agreed to carry a green bag.

"You're probably right," I said, and leaned back against the seat, being careful not to bump Erik's shoulder. "I only hope Antoinette and the Count are all right."

* * *

><p>Miles and miles away, Francis sat in Erik's kitchen, holding a pen over the mass of papers and books he had spread out over the table: maps, the Blackmailer's notes, encyclopedias. Madame Giry sat next to him, frowning. The Count was attempting to pinpoint Irene, Erik, and Nadir without any information from them, and he was failing.<p>

"We have no way of finding them," she pointed out for the thousandth time in two days. "And we were supposed to head to Italy in case something like this occurred."

Francis flipped another page in the encyclopedia (_fungal infection, fungi, fungus_), sighed, and slammed the book shut. Antoinette frowned darker.

"There is no need to _slam_ things," she informed him. "It is nearly dinnertime; let's eat. You need to keep your strength up, as you are still healing from your wound. After dinner we should pack. We've spent enough time here."

"I am so tired of bread and cheese," the Count moaned, rising half-heartedly to his feet and raking papers and books together in a muddled mess. "If _only_ Erik bought something other than bread and cheese; but no, he had to buy that – and only that. Bread, and cheese. Cheese, and bread. Does the man have _any_ taste buds at all?"

Antoinette resisted the urge to tell the Count (again) that Erik _had_ saved his life, so he shouldn't be so rude about him, but instead got up and went into the pantry. She didn't really blame Francis for being tired of the food, but as they couldn't venture up into the top of the Opera – not only because the police were still searching, but also because Erik had closed the safest passageways and set traps in the others – they were unable to buy more.

And she didn't want to be injected with a sedative again, thank _you_, or to wake up to a bleeding Francis with Wednesday on his lap. She slammed the cupboard shut – remembered her admonition to the Count not to do that exact thing – and laughed noiselessly to herself, even as her hand rang with pain. The dart that woman had stuck her with had injured more than flesh: it had torn a ligament or something, because it was now much more difficult to open and close her fingers, especially the index one.

She sighed, gathered up the basket of bread and cheese she had taken from the cupboard, and went out into the living room to find Francis. He was probably playing with the cat.

* * *

><p>"So we're leaving tonight?" he asked, from his place on the sofa. Wednesday lay stretched across his lap like a piece of limp black fur; he was stroking her head. Antoinette wondered if Erik would be annoyed to come home and find that his cat had taken an immense liking to the Count. She thought so.<p>

"If you think it's a good idea," Antoinette said, and put the basket down on the table. "I do. After all, it's our best chance. We don't know how close the police are to finding Erik's home."

Francis nodded, and snagged a piece of bread from the basket. As he chewed, his eyes moved around the room, roving from the table, to the bookcases, to the statues on the mantel… What would Erik want them to save? Clearly, the organ – but that was impossible. His collection of music would be a good idea, as would some clothing and his violin – perhaps a painting or two. And Irene's book – he would want that.

"We can't take everything," Antoinette said, as if answering his unspoken question. She sat down next to him with a sigh. "And we need to pack suitcases of our own belongings, except that we have no way of reaching our rooms. I thought we should gather up Erik's spare money and bring it with us; we can buy clothing and other necessities while en route to Italy."

Francis choked in shock, spraying bread crumbs everywhere. Wednesday sat up on his lap, tossing her head in annoyance – some of the crumbs had fallen on her fur – and stalked away, taking care to dig her claws into the sofa cushions as she left.

"Steal Erik's money?" the Count demanded, when he had finished coughing. Antoinette took a delicate bite of Brie and said nothing. "Must we? He'll kill us – I mean, _me_. He'll kill _me_!"

"I hardly think Erik would murder you," said Antoinette calmly. "After lunch, we should go looking for it – he's probably hidden it in his room. Really, Francis, I wouldn't take his money unless it wasn't absolutely necessary, but we need food and clothing, and I'm sure Erik won't mind."

Francis shook his head, emphatically. "_You_ can go rummaging through his room, but I'm not putting a finger in there. He probably has a thousand traps, all lined up and shining and sitting there, just waiting for an intruder."

Antoinette scoffed. "Really, Francis, must you jump to wild conclusions?"

The Count stared at her, his eyes huge.

Madame Giry sighed and gave it up. The argument was hardly defensible. "Very well. I see your point. Erik can be a tad… overprotective. But I do think it would go faster if you helped."

"You can shout if you have any problems," Francis said, and reached for another piece of bread. "I'll be out here."

Antoinette took another bite of cheese. "I'll tackle it in a moment. A minute, or so."

They sat on the couch, each eating, and finally Antoinette sighed and got to her feet.

"Well?"

"Well, if I must, I must," the Count groaned, and threw down his last piece of bread onto the table. Wednesday leapt up and caught it in her teeth, snapping her head from side to side to kill it, as if it wasn't already dead enough.

Antoinette got to her feet and strode towards the door, her skirts whipping briskly around her legs, and the Count followed, his feet dragging on the rugs, his heart downcast. But then a bright thought struck him – he picked up his pace.

"And while we're at it, let's see if he hid any food in his room. I mean, the man's _got_ to have chocolate. Everyone has chocolate."

"You'd be surprised," Antoinette said, dryly. "There are many things Erik does without. Take fresh air, for one."

"People," ventured the Count. "He doesn't like people."

"Except for a very few," Antoinette agreed. "And he doesn't like a lot of talking. Too much noise aggravates him; _you_ know that."

The Count let the jibe slide past without comment. "Or balls. He despises balls."

"And patrons. He hates Honoré."

"Or people leaving. He hates it when Irene's gone."

"He doesn't mind when _some_ people are gone," Antoinette murmured. "Oh, and he hates change. But most people do, so I don't think that applies solely to him. Think of another one, will you?"

"He hates murderers," said Francis.

"Count, _everyone_ hates murderers. Hurry up, we're nearly to his room."

* * *

><p>"I despise carriages," Erik said. "Let's never go anywhere in one again."<p>

He was lying face-down on his bed in the room we had rented – Nadir was across the hall in his own room, and I was sitting on my bed, cross-legged, waiting for our dinner. Thanks to Nicolas, we had enough money to stay in the inn for nearly a year, even while paying the exorbitant rate the innkeeper had asked for each of our two rooms.

"You hate a lot of things," I said, smiling fondly at the back of his dark head. "Balls, the Count, Honoré, other people… I could list more, but I think I won't. And are you certain you don't want a doctor?"

"From how you described my back," Erik said, speaking into his pillow, "I think I can handle it. It is bandaged, it is not currently bleeding; it doesn't quite feel like someone branded me anymore, and I am able to walk -"

"- with assistance," I interrupted. "With a _large_ amount of assistance, Erik -"

"- and I am alive," Erik said, interrupting me. "So I do not need a doctor."

There was a timid knock on the door – both of us jumped, and I reached for my knife before I realized I didn't have one anymore.

Erik looked at me; I looked at him, and he sighed and pulled himself up onto his elbows.

"Who is it?" he demanded.

"Er, the maid. Marie," said a frightened female voice. "With dinner."

"Leave it outside," I called, and got to my feet (despite Erik's frantic head-shaking). "Thank you."

As the maid's footsteps died away down the hall, I gave Erik a look. "What? Why are you shaking your head at me? I am only walking."

"I thought you were going to go get it when she was there," Erik growled, and let his head thump back into the pillow. "But, thankfully, I was wrong."

"A complete shock, that is," I said, but under my breath. "Shall I check on Nadir?"

"No," said Erik. "Stay here. But get the food. I need the food."

I ignored his blatant contradictions, opened the door, and brought the tray inside, shutting the door with my foot. Then I put the tray on the table between our beds and began opening the lids that covered each plate.

"Let us see. We have: ooh, chicken soup. And bread! I love bread. And a plate of Brie, and some wine – but we don't need that, we have water. And some sort of dessert – oh, it's crème brûlée. My favorite!"

"Where's the chocolate?" said Erik. "It can't be a meal without chocolate. Check your bag."

"I don't have any and you know it," I said, remembering something and getting up. "I forgot to lock the door. Here, try some soup. It smells delicious."

"It smells like food from an inn. I despise inns," Erik grumbled, but he tried a spoonful anyway, as I went to lock the door.

* * *

><p>An hour or so later, there was another knock on our door. I sat up – I'd been dozing on my bed, stuffed with good food and brimming with exhaustion – and said, sleepily, "Who is it?"<p>

"Me," Nadir said. "May I come in?"

Erik sighed into his pillow. He had been dozing too.

"Come in," I said, and flopped back down on the bed.

"Do you have chocolate?" Erik asked.

Nadir tried to enter, but jiggling on the doorknob produced no results. "No, Erik, I don't. I can't seem to open the door."

"Oh," I said, rolling off the bed and rummaging around on the tray for the key. "I'm sorry, Nadir; let me get the key."

Erik laughed into his pillow at my mistake, his bandaged shoulders shaking; I swatted his foot (very, very gently) as I passed.

Nadir came in with a rush of cold air. "My room feels like an icebox," he said, hurrying past me to the fireplace. "I don't have a fireplace, and I don't have any money to request another room, and I think we should save our money while we can, so may I -"

"No," said Erik, and struggled into a sitting position. "You may not. I forbid it."

"Yes, you may," I said.

"No, he may _not_," Erik clarified. "No, no, no, no, no. No."

I crossed my arms. "The poor man's room is icy. _Icy_, Erik. As in icebergs and iceboxes and icicles and snow and frozen Arctic waters. We can't let our friend freeze to death in his icy, uninhabitable room."

"Yes, we can," said Erik. His eyes, half-heartedly, followed my gaze.

I was looking at Nadir, who had assumed a miserable, pathetic expression of woe, his dark eyes very wide and very bright. Suspiciously bright, in fact.

Erik sighed noisily. "Fine. You can stay here, but you have to sleep on the floor."

"I wouldn't dream of asking for anything else," Nadir declared, and bounded to the door. "Let me get my blankets."

* * *

><p>When Nadir returned, he built a sort of fort-bed on the ground next to the fireplace: his pillows were arranged around the outside in a large, poufy circle; the blankets were laid carefully inside. The coverlet, he put on top of the whole creation, and said, with a broad grin, "Finished."<p>

"You are going to sleep in that?" Erik said, eyeing the entire thing with skepticism.

"I am," Nadir agreed, looking around. "Do you have an extra pillow?"

"No," Erik said. "You are going to sleep in _that_?"

"Yes," Nadir said. He frowned. "I am. Do _you_ have an extra pillow, Irene?"

"Yes," I said, located it, and threw it to him. "Nadir, what is your opinion about getting a doctor for Erik?"

"He does not have one," Erik said, over Nadir's attempted answer. "And _that_ is not a bed."

"I seem to recall you sleeping on a couch at one point," I said. "A very dirty couch, in Luke's old room. And I asked Nadir, not you. Nadir, do you mind answering more loudly?"

"I said," said Nadir, raising his voice, "that-"

"He is going to sleep in that _thing_," Erik said, extremely loudly. "You are going to sleep in that_ monstrosity?_"

"I think we need a doctor," I said. It seemed that the drugs Erik had received while at the Inspector's were addling his brain.

"I already got one!" said Nadir, nearly shouting in order to be heard. "He is coming up to the room right now!"

"He's sleeping in a blanket and pillow _nest_," Erik told me, oblivious.

I patted his hand. "Perhaps you should lie down, dear. Nadir will fix his bed correctly. I promise."

"He'd better," said Erik, his bad temper still intact even while mentally impaired. "Or I will have to fix it for him."

I imagined Erik throwing blankets and pillows haphazardly into the air; feathers flying into the fire, fine white material ripping – Nadir weeping…

"I'm sure he'll fix it," I repeated, in a monotone, and continued to pat him. "I'm absolutely certain."

Erik lay back down on his bed. Nadir hurried around, picking up his blankets and pillows. With a sad sigh, he tossed all of them into the far corner, cast a final depressed glance at Erik, and sat down in the chair next to the door. I presumed he was waiting for the doctor.

_Hopefully,_ I thought, _he will be here very soon. Or we might have to take more drastic measures. _

_I could send Nadir outside, perhaps. Or lock his pillows and blankets in the bathroom: out of sight, out of mind._

Erik, almost asleep, whispered something: I leaned down to hear it.

"What?" I whispered.

"Being forced to ingest drugs is more fun than I thought it would be," he whispered. "It only took three minutes before everyone agreed to do what I said. Well, except for the doctor part. I will have to come up with a better plan next time."

"Oh, you brute!" I snapped, and stomped away to the door, seething, as his laughter rang out merrily behind me.

Nadir, realizing what had happened, scowled and slumped deeper into his chair. "I hate him. I really, truly hate him. Irene, when we get to Italy, let's dump him into a canal."

I couldn't help but agree. Yes, it was true: Erik did drive everyone mad eventually. I shuddered to think what would happen when Antoinette finally snapped.

"We should order chocolate," Erik said, his laughter dying down into occasional chuckles. "I'm still hungry."

"You should have eaten more of your soup," I said. "You order it."

"_I'll_ order it," Nadir snapped. He got up, tried to open the door, scowled when he realized it was locked, and threw his hands into the air. "I hate inns. Where's the key?"

As I searched for the key, I ruminated on the dramatic change of events from yesterday to today – death and torture to inns and lost keys. Where would we end up tomorrow?

I hoped it would be closer to Italy. It would be very nice to see Antoinette and Francis again; I wondered what they were doing right now.

* * *

><p>"Did you manage to disengage the trap yet?" Francis gasped, sweat dripping down his forehead as the spiked walls of the metal box surrounding him edged closer and closer. "I'd rather not be a human pincushion, Antoinette!"<p>

"I can't seem to find the switch," Antoinette said, from somewhere outside of the metal box, "and if you hadn't tripped over the wire you wouldn't be in there! Besides, Erik doesn't kill people – it will stop before it reaches you. I think."

"That was not encouraging," Francis groaned. The spikes seemed to be inching closer; he thought he heard something creak. Was the whole contraption going to break? Would he be trapped in here forever?

"There!" Antoinette cried happily. "I've got it!"

With a series of painful screeching noises, the machine slid apart and back into the ceiling, from whence it had originally arrived. Francis stood very still, praying that he would get out of this stupid bedroom alive. Erik was not only highly overprotective, he was deranged.

"This was _your _bad idea," he told Antoinette, who for some reason was smiling. "I cannot believe I ever agreed to this."

"Oh, hush," Madame Giry said. "I've found the money. It was in his bookcase, inside of Voltaire's _Candide_. Apparently he didn't like this book: see?"

She held up the book, and turned it so Francis could see the inside.

All the pages were missing (except for a clever, glued-together lining that ran around the top and sides, hiding their non-existence), and in the pocket where they had been was a black drawstring bag. Antoinette took it out and shook it. There was the metallic, joyful ring of metal coins smacking into each other.

"Thank goodness," Francis said, stepping cautiously, very cautiously towards the door. "Now let's go pack. I want to get out of here as soon as possible. Can you imagine what will happen when the police finally find one of the secret passageways? They'll all die within thirty seconds!"

"Now, Francis," Antoinette said, patiently, "Erik doesn't kill people. I am tired of repeating that, so remember it this time."

But as they went down the hallway together, she had a difficult time trying not to laugh. _Thirty seconds? If Erik had put his mind to it, it would probably have been more like ten._

_Or five._

_Even, perhaps… three._


	31. Chapter 31: Changement

_Yay! A new chapter! I hope you enjoy it!_

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* * *

><p>It was very early in the morning, and the sky outside was a rich dark blue. I was perched on the railing on the balcony of our third-story room, Erik's cloak wrapped around me, and wearing my new slippers.<p>

Nadir had bought me a pair upon arriving at the inn. I had originally planned on simply marching into the inn with bare feet and requesting a room, but he had dissuaded me from the idea. Instead he had left Erik and I in the carriage, gone across the road to a clothing shop, and banged on the door until someone answered.

Needless to say, the price for my shoes was considerably higher than usual.

But we had more than enough money, and Linnet's necklace, so I did not really care.

"Irene?"

It wasn't Erik's normal voice; it sounded muffled and confused.

* * *

><p>I slipped off the railing and hurried back inside, shutting the balcony door behind me as quietly as I could.<p>

The covers lay strewn around him: he must have thrown them off in the beginning of the dream.

I sat down on the side of his bed and put a gentle hand on the back of his neck. It was the only place untouched by the lash of the whip, the only place that lacked long scarring stripes of healing flesh.

His skin was hot. At my touch, he mumbled my name again and his hand crept across the mattress, searching blindly for me.

I took it in mine. With the other I stroked sticky black locks (they were too straight to be called curls) from his sweaty forehead, noting the way the dim light from the fading fire in the fireplace made his brown skin shine with a too-pale sheen. My hand brushed against something smooth and hard – I stopped.

The mask was warm, nearly hot. Porcelain held heat; the mask had to be irritating the fevered, tender skin underneath.

Only Nadir – and Nadir had surely seen his face; I was sure of it – and I were in the room. The door was locked; the inn was quiet. It was the dead stillness of early morning.

Why did he have to wear the mask?

I curled my fingers around the warmed edges of the porcelain and tugged the mask away.

Erik shifted, stirring – I waited for him to wake – but he only gripped my hand tighter, his strong fingers locked almost painfully around mine, and sighed. It was the troubled, drawn-out sigh of a sick child; I bit my lip hard.

Leaning back against the headboard, I set the mask down with a clink on the side table, and pulled the slippers off, dropping them onto the rugs. Curling my feet up under my skirts, I closed my eyes. Soon it would be full morning, and I had not slept for a very long time. I needed to rest.

* * *

><p>When the doctor had arrived hours earlier, he had taken one look at his patient and announced that he would bleed him.<p>

Erik had said no.

The doctor, a tall thin man with limbs like a praying mantis', had crossed his arms over his hollow chest, his spindly limbs bending in a grotesque manner, and looked from Nadir to me. It seemed he could not decide whether to ask the unchaperoned, unmarried woman for help, or the foreigner.

With a wispy sigh, he finally settled on Nadir.

"I cannot help this man unless he agrees to allow me to help him," he had said, his pale eyes bulging a little in their dry white sockets. "Blood-letting is a trusted and competent solution to many illnesses, and one to be-"

Nadir had shaken his head. "No bleeding. I've studied medicine myself; it does not work. Is there any other way you can help him?"

The doctor, with the air of a belittled man, had turned to me. "Perhaps _you_ can see the logic of what I am trying to say?"

"No," I said, infuriated not only by his treatment of Erik, but also of Nadir and I. We were his equals in every capacity; why was he treating us so rudely? "No. Please tell us another way to help him, Doctor, we are desperate. And we _are_ paying you for your time."

The doctor forced his shrunken lips into an unconvincing, sickly smile, and tapped his crooked fingers together.

"Have him drink plenty of water. Have him rest, and don't let him strain himself in any manner that may interfere with the healing on his back. Overall, there is nothing else I can do for him, except to prescribe opium for the pain. Once again, I repeat, do not let him do anything that will strain his back."

He had stared pointedly at me until I felt myself flushing, spots of heat rising on my cheeks; even I had finally grasped the innuendo in that last line.

Erik, who had been silent until then, sat up, forgetting his mask in his anger (he'd been facing away from the doctor).

"Get out."

"My money," the doctor ventured, stepping back several feet from the bed, transfixed by Erik's scars.

His thin hands fluttered at his sides, as if wondering what it would be like to examine the lines and ridges of Erik's face; as if to reach for a scalpel… I drew in a sharp breath, remembering a near mirror image of this same expression on the Inspector's toady face – a hunger, a fear, a horror.

Nadir handed the doctor a small pouch and pointed, inexorably, towards the door.

Moving so quickly that he was almost a thin white blur, the doctor stuffed his instruments and basin into his bag and went away.

* * *

><p>The door slammed.<p>

Erik sighed, and with obvious pain, slowly lowered himself back down onto his stomach, his face paling with the strain.

Nadir knew it was useless to try and help. He crossed the room to his makeshift bed (he'd fixed it an hour before) and threw himself down onto it with a groan.

"I suppose it went better than I'd expected," he said, from the floor.

I sat down on the edge of Erik's bed and touched the back of his hand. My love smiled wearily up at me, his eyes dark green in the firelight.

Nadir continued, "At the very least, we know how to help you heal, Erik. And he didn't say anything about not traveling. I think we should leave this town as quickly as possible."

"You aren't sure about Nicolas' last stand, either," Erik remarked, an expression of amused admiration crossing his features. "Well, I'm skeptical too. I'll have to see with my own eyes that the Inspector and his cursed group of thugs, thieves, and torturers are dead before I'll believe a word of it. Nicolas did not strike me as the type to go out in a blaze of glory. Figuratively, yes – but literally – no."

I sat there for a moment, thinking. "But he was obviously sorry for what he had done, Erik. It may have been his last deed – his only great deed. 'Greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay down his life for his friends …'"

Erik raised his eyebrows; I sighed and backtracked. "Well, I don't really count us among Nicolas' friends, but he _did_ save our lives. And I doubt that he'd want to come looking for us – if he's not dead, he's in hiding."

"He was something of a coward," Nadir said, putting his hands behind his head and gazing pensively up at the ceiling. "But what I'd really like to find out is if that horrible woman Linnet is dead."

Erik nodded. "As would I."

With a grunt, he reached for the covers lying in a heap around his waist – I jumped up to help him, and we tugged in tandem until the soft white blankets covered his back and shoulders.

"It's nearly midnight; we should all get some sleep."

Nadir, yawning, rolled over, pulling the blankets up around his head. "Goodnight, you two. See you in the morning."

"Goodnight," Erik said.

"Goodnight, Nadir."

* * *

><p>When we were both certain that the crackling of the fire was loud to cover our whispered conversation, Erik said quietly, "I don't suppose you'll go to bed soon?"<p>

"Not yet," I whispered, trying to be quiet for Nadir's sake and for our own. Privacy, for all of us, was scarce while on the run. "In an hour or so, probably."

Erik murmured, catching the lie, "At least try to get some sleep, Irene. You're exhausted."

"I'll try," I agreed, "but I doubt anything will come of it. Goodnight, dear. If you need anything during the night, don't hesitate to wake me up. That is, if I do manage to fall asleep."

The last words caught in my throat – _Erik on a table, not breathing_ – I swallowed hard and turned around, pretending to be searching for something.

A long hand closed around my arm. I stopped moving; stopped thinking.

"Come here. Let me hold you."

"But your back-"

"It won't hurt me. Come here."

* * *

><p>With a long indrawn breath, which sounded to me almost like a near-sob, I turned.<p>

Erik opened his arms to me. I crawled into the bed, into his embrace. The wall of protection I'd built around myself, the wall I had built during the long days at the Inspector's, slowly, carefully, began to crumble away.

Erik always wore down my defenses with love.

"Hush, hush," he whispered into my hair, as I curled myself against his warmth, my breathing shaky and broken into his shoulder. "Hush, hush, hush. I'm here. I'm here."

* * *

><p>When the sky lightened outside, and the fire dwindled away into ashes in the fireplace, I disengaged myself from Erik, carefully lifting his arm away, and crept across the floor to the balcony curtains. He was sleeping deeply, deep enough not to wake at my leaving.<p>

His cloak was lying over a chair. I lifted it onto my shoulders.

Reaching up, I pulled the filmy white curtain aside, slipped on my shoes, and unlocked the balcony door.

If the Inspector was here; if he was waiting in the square outside, his beady eyes rapt and fixed on the inn, I would show myself to him. I would step onto the balcony, my hair falling loose and wild around my face, and let him see me. When he did, I would go downstairs; I would give myself up exchange for my friends' safe passage home; I'd leave Erik and Nadir to save them.

But there was no need, and I hadn't really thought there would be. I was operating purely on crazily taut nerves firing wildly in every direction; on trembling limbs and half-imagined voices, the voices of Linnet, Luke, the Inspector – and they wanted me, they wanted me badly, so badly, and I was afraid.

_Oh_, I was afraid. Afraid beyond speech, afraid beyond thought.

Afraid without reason.

But the blue cobblestones lay still and empty; the sky outside was a dark electric blue that signified nothing. I pulled Erik's cloak closer around my shoulders and sat down on the edge of the railing, waiting for the first golden streaks of sun to paint the horizon with beauty.

If escaping criminals had taught me nothing else, it had taught me to wait. Waiting was essential to survival. Too early; too late; both could lead to destruction. Hadn't I pressed the Inspector too far in the beginning? And hadn't I failed to buy Erik enough time?

I had failed; I had failed; yes, I had failed him, and Nadir. And at this moment, I had probably also failed Antoinette and the Count. We did not know where they were, or how they were – we had left Francis with a gunshot wound, and this was dangerous. This was deadly.

And there was Antoinette: neither Nadir nor Erik nor I had any idea what had happened to her – for all we knew, she was unconscious or crippled or dead. Erik's secret passageways ran as deep as the Paris sewers and almost as long; the Count, if he was able to walk, would not be able to find Antoinette, not for a long time.

And I had not thought Francis capable of finding his own way out of the passageways without a guide (nor, likewise, myself), let alone finding an injured woman and bringing her back to safety.

Yet Antoinette was strong, and quick, and if Francis had found her – if she had found him – they would be alive. I knew the two of them together would not be easily brought down.

But again, the old thought nagged me that perhaps there were others. Perhaps the Inspector had set a plan in motion, a plan that even after his death his friends would carry out – and if this was the case, I would not have been surprised.

Hadn't he been the one who had told me he had "twists and turns I knew nothing about?", things I would not be able to stop even if I had twenty Eriks and a thousand policemen on my side?

And then there remained a question, a question pertaining to our friends: what was Nadir's purpose in coming to the Opera in the first place? He had told us that he was checking on his friend; that he was worried about Erik, but I had never been entirely satisfied with this.

After Luke, after Claire, nothing, no one was trustworthy – I had only ever trusted the Phantom because I knew he had no reason to lie to me, no reason to hurt me. Antoinette, while wily enough to fool me, had never done so and never would. I had known instinctively that I could trust her with anything.

But Nadir was an interesting case: an enigma, and one that I did not think I would figure out quickly. Yes, he had come here to check on Erik – but had he also come for a second reason?

And what had that reason been?

Then there was the sound of my name, from inside - Erik. I let the troubled thoughts fall away, and slipped off the railing to go to Erik, to go and comfort him.

* * *

><p>When the sky was nearly all gold and red and pink, and the clouds were burning as they drifted in front of the sun, I slipped my hand from Erik's relaxed grasp and reached for Linnet's purse.<p>

We needed supplies, and it was clear I wasn't going to get any sleep at this time. Promising myself I'd sleep in the carriage, I dropped the spare key next to Nadir's limp hand and went out, locking the door behind me.

I was still wearing the same formal gown I had worn for the Opera's last performance, two whole days ago – it seemed like a hundred – and I desperately needed a change of clothing. Erik and Nadir did not seem to care that they had been wearing the same clothing for two days; they did not even seem to care about taking a bath.

But I did, and I was going to take one, and it was going to be soon. Furthermore, we needed disguises of some sort – I did not doubt the doctor was telling his family even now about the scarred man with equally bizarre friends who had so rudely refused his services; and to add insult to injury, refused them in the dead of night, when he had gotten up especially for them.

Erik's mask; Erik's face; Erik's scars; in a town this small, any bit of shocking news would be a delight.

For a moment, I imagined the townspeople gathering at the inn, their faces eager, waiting impatiently for the scarred man to descend the stairs and come out. By that time, he would no longer be scarred; they would have cooked the gossip up into something wholly false: something like a man "with half a face," a man without any face at all, a man with rotting teeth and black tongue and rotting flesh. With a shudder, I went as quickly as I dared down the stairs.

Perhaps I was working myself into a frenzy over nothing, but perhaps I was not, and for now I would consistently err on the side of safety.

* * *

><p>It was late the next day when we arrived in Reims – it turned out that the Inspector's house was in the countryside near Amiens. Erik, after a period of long discussion, had discerned this from a map the innkeeper had given us.<p>

I had been sleeping with my head on Erik's shoulder, grateful for the long carriage ride, because it offered me some respite from not only my sleepiness, but also my thoughts.

Erik was feeling better, considerably better, since his long rest at the inn, and his nice warm meal – I was the tired one now. He sat with his back to the window, carefully avoiding any physical contact with the healing wounds, and I had somehow wedged myself between him and the back of the seat. His cloak was over me; my legs stretched out towards the opposite window.

When the carriage stopped, I woke up, blinking hazily in the pale sunlight from the curtained windows.

Erik, noting this, said, "Hello."

"Where are we?" I yawned.

"We are in Reims," Erik said. "A nice, populated city, with plenty of places to hide."

Nadir rapped on the window, and I sat up, accidentally letting Erik's cloak slide off my legs and onto the floor. Erik caught it before it went under the seat, and opened the carriage door.

"Did you find an inn?" he asked Nadir.

Nadir looked very pleased with himself. "Yes. It is called L'Auberge Des Milles Roses, and it has quite an extensive rose garden. Hence the name."

"Lovely," I said, still yawning, and got to my feet. "Does it have bathrooms?"

"I hope so," Nadir said, and promptly disproved my previous sentiment with his next statement. "I would love to take a bath."

Erik took my hand and helped me out of the carriage; he had sprung down the steps with the physical grace he'd had before the torture, hiding the grimace of pain I knew was there.

He had to act healthy if he wanted to pull off his disguise; I had to act like any other young Frenchwoman, which was why I was wearing a wedding ring, and which was why he was wearing a bushy mustache.

The scars were hidden under a liberal covering of green and skin-toned makeup; his distinctive black hair was covered by a hat. He wore glasses to disguise his nose and eyes; with them on, he reminded me of a struggling poet, or a starving scholar – I had teased him about it on the way here, to his great disgust.

Nadir had donned a motley arrangement of clothing: a red striped jacket, a purple handkerchief in the pocket, a startlingly green linen shirt, and to top it off, flaming orange trousers with black boots. He was also wearing a mustache: a thin blond one.

His precise words about his completely outrageous outfit had been: "Shock breeds avoidance. No one will recognize me in a thousand years, and I am sure, even if he does happen to recognize me, the Inspector will fervently ignore me in hopes that my horrible fashion sense will not transfer to him."

He was supposed to be Erik's valet; Erik and I were supposed to be newlyweds. With luck, we would all manage to blend in for a day or so without trouble. We'd rest, eat a few meals, and vanish into the night, never to be seen again.

I was wearing a new blue dress that matched my slippers, a red cloak over my arm. My hair was pinned up – and brown, courtesy of Erik – I had not wanted to dye it, but I had accepted that it was necessary for our survival. Thankfully, the dye would wash out in two weeks' time - and then, if we needed to, we would dye it again.

Linnet's gold purse had been exchanged for a large green one. Nicolas' bag had been distributed among two new suitcases, both of which Nadir was holding as he went ahead of us through the crowds, heading towards our inn.

As we hurried after him, I took a firmer grip on Erik's arm, thoughts whirling through my head. So far, everything was going well; and if we continued to move as quickly, we would reach Italy in less than two weeks.

We had to find Antoinette and Francis. We had to stay ahead of our enemies, who could even now be searching for us.

* * *

><p>It was a dangerous game, but we were capable, and we would play it well.<p> 


	32. Chapter 32: Moqueurs et Gitans

New chapter time! Okay, where are you, reviewers? I am missing you... Sob...

I hope you like this new chapter!

Also, this chapter starts off with a dream, which is why it is in italics. So don't skip that part.

* * *

><p>"<em>Every finger, every toe, from head to hands to nose…"<em>

_I stood in the center of a stone room, a long bare table at my elbow. The torches lining the otherwise empty walls flickered – I looked up at the nearest one, watching with mild curiosity as it guttered in the noiseless wind._

_Where was I? This room seemed familiar, but I didn't know why._

"_Sometimes they cry, sometimes they scream, but for once I'd like to hear them speak…"_

_The strange words, sung in a haunting tune, tugged at me, and for the first time I looked down at the table. The singing seemed to be emanating from it._

_There were dark bloodstains on the wood; a handprint of splintered glass was crushed into the corner of the table. I reached out to touch them: they were trembling, like teardrops on the edge of a weathered cheekbone. One bright piece was embedded so deep that it stood up like a flag._

_Something terrible had happened here._

* * *

><p>"<em>Ears for ears, teeth for teeth, he told me. Yes, he said, yes. And eyes for eyes…"<em>

_I forgot the glass fragments – I had glimpsed a flicker of movement under the clear veneer of the wood, something inside of it, something pale. Gripping the edges of the table, I lowered my face to the wood, looking hard; looking into the table like a mirror. _

_Something swirled within: a ghostly figure, trailing gray streamers of old cloth behind it._

_I brought my face as close as I could, awed. It seemed there was another world within the table; a world where a specter hovered behind the wood like a moth trapped in glass. _

_The specter, I thought, was singing. But the words made no sense._

"_Pain is love, he said. Pain, he said, will bring you back to me, he said. I promise, I promise, I promise, he said…"_

_The figure spun slowly upwards, a hood hiding its face, still singing. The voice had shifted from bass to alto to soprano during the course of its song; I was unsure whether it was man or woman. I leaned closer, transfixed by the mystery._

"_Who are you?" _

_The words, irrevocable, hung in the air like drops of sweet honey._

_The figure's hood remained in place. It continued to rise, spinning faster, the streamers of gray spinning after it. The song gray louder, louder, __**louder**__ until it filled the room and crescendoed madly off the walls. I pressed my hands to my ears, trying to stop the sound, but it was as though the song was in my head – it grew no softer._

_The torches went out in a burst of darkness, and at once, the only visible object was the specter, glowing the same ghostly gray._

_It swirled up until it was nearly to the wood, and halted, its back to me. _

_At last the hood fell away, and long hair cascaded in long waves down its grey robe._

_But I could not see its face._

"_Death comes to all, to all, to all, and it does not wait for anything; no, nothing, not tears or pleading…"_

_The figure pivoted._

* * *

><p><em>I felt a shock ring deep into my bones.<em>

* * *

><p><em>It was Linnet.<em>

_No – it was her ghost._

* * *

><p><em>Her blue eyes gazed at me through a film of gray so delicate it resembled fine old lace. Everything – her cheeks, her dress, her hands – everything was masked in the same gray shadows. Her gown curled in eerie tatters around her bare feet; her grayish lips were parted.<em>

"_Or so he said, he said, he said," she sang, straight into my face, "Why wait? I asked. Do, he said. I will, he said. And it was night…"_

_The song shuddered away into silence, but Linnet continued to gaze out at me from behind the wood. It was as though there was glass between us; she could not touch me, and I could not touch her – though I had no desire to._

"_I'll do anything," she said. Her speaking voice was crackly, like old paper. "Anything. You can torture me, Linnet, don't you want that? Torture __**me**__ instead of him."_

_She saw my confusion: she suddenly rose up, pressing her face and hands to the translucent wood until the skin stretched. "You don't remember begging, Irene?" Her voice rose, truly cracking now. "You don't remember begging for your love, begging to save him? __**I**__ do."_

_Terrified, I tried to back away, but the edges of the table bulged out, creaking horribly, sprouting long brown tentacles that curled around my wrists, their old tree-strength stronger than iron bars. Linnet leaned closer, her smile widening._

"_He's not dead," she whispered through her clenched teeth, gray lips pulled back over gray gums._

_The shadows over her skin rippled, and for a horrifying moment a bone-white skull gaped at me from behind the ghostly veil. But then the shadows settled back into place, and Linnet's façade reformed. _

_Her dead blue eyes were unblinking and very cold._

"_He's not dead."_

* * *

><p><em>I wanted to ask who she meant, but the words were lodged somewhere in my stomach.<em>

_The gray veil over her features flickered again, and Linnet pulled her hands away from the wood, still smiling. _

_She fell slowly away, into the growing blackness below, but I saw her dead lips move a final time before the abyss swallowed her up._

"_He's coming..."_

* * *

><p>I sat up, drenched in sweat, my hair sticking to the back of my neck, and reached out blindly for a match, for a candle, for something real.<p>

A strong hand latched onto my shoulder – I could not help myself; I cried out.

The hand instantaneously released me.

"Irene? Irene, you're dreaming. It's me; it's only me."

It was Erik's voice, and the things I had thought were ropes wrapped around my legs and waist was only a blanket – my hand had fallen onto its softness, revealing its true nature.

"Erik?"

I opened my eyes, and understood.

* * *

><p>We were in the carriage, heading away from Reims. It was mid-afternoon; the sun streamed in through the curtains; and Erik had leaned forward from the opposite seat. His dark eyes were fixed on me.<p>

"Are you alright?" he asked, making no move to touch me. Perhaps he thought I would scream and flinch again. "What were you dreaming? I tried to wake you earlier – you were muttering – but you wouldn't wake up."

I pressed both of my hands to my face, trying to blink away the lingering vestiges of the dream. It had seemed so real.

"I had a nightmare."

He did not push for details, only put a warm hand on my knee. "I'm sorry."

"It was about Linnet," I said.

Erik's voice did not register surprise; only comprehension.

"Ah. I see."

After a moment, he added, stumbling, "Was it- did it -"

"No," I said, guessing at his meaning and immediately cutting him off. "No, it wasn't you, thank God. It was… new. Erik, I think one of them is alive."

I had dropped my hands away from my face, and Erik stared at me. "What?"

"Linnet told me one of them – a man – was still alive. She said he was coming for us."

Erik said nothing.

I leaned my head back against the seat; let my eyes slip away to the window. The green leaves of the forest streamed past the crack in the curtains, and the dream slowly ebbed away, replaced by the iron bars of common sense. I glanced back at Erik – he was staring pensively at his clasped hands – and felt a surge of anger at my foolish words. Why had I said something like that? Shouldn't I have offered hope, instead of fear? He would have done the same for me.

"Erik, it was only a dream. I doubt any of them are still alive. What are you thinking?"

Erik looked up from his hands, the sunlight falling full on his face, and I realized he wasn't wearing his mask. I blinked at him, surprised.

He smiled, but wryly, as if in self-mockery. "Nothing. Nothing important. I see you're still wearing your ring."

"Oh," I said, glancing down at my left hand and the diamond band that sparkled there, the fake wedding ring Erik had bought for me. "Yes, I am. It's pretty, don't you think? Despite the fact that it's paste, and all."

"Yes. You need a new one, I think."

"Soon, I hope," I said, happily, and changed the subject. "I noticed you're not wearing your mask."

"I thought you wouldn't miss it," Erik said, running a hand through his hair. "Does it – I mean, are you – I mean… Oh, God, never mind."

Impulsively, I reached forward and put my hand against his cheek. "Erik, it does not bother me, truly. Now are you going to stay all the way over there, or are you going to sit next to me? I'm awake now, so we can talk."

"A difficult question," Erik mused. "I'll have to think about it."

I balled up the blanket and threw it at him; he ducked, laughing at my ineffectual attack. I reached for something else to throw – perhaps a pillow – and my hand found my purse.

"Alright, alright, I'm moving!" he protested, getting to his feet. "I'm moving!"

* * *

><p>When we were both settled on my seat, with Erik's arm comfortably around my shoulders, I decided it would be time to bring up the question of his back. We hadn't seen a doctor - thanks not only to Erik, who kept skirting the subject – but also to Nadir, who had pointed out that if the Inspector (or others) were following us, it would be common sense to question doctors about a man with a lacerated back.<p>

"How are you feeling?" I asked, cautiously. It would be just like Erik to refuse my help.

"The same," Erik said. "At least I can lean against things now without considerable pain. But perhaps you could help me change the bandages when we reach the campsite?"

"Of course," I said, very pleased that he had brought it up instead of me. "But first we have to find a suitable place to stop. I don't want to try to change them while we're rattling around in the carriage. You said there were caves up here?"

Nodding, Erik pulled back the curtain and glanced out of the side window. "Yes. They'll be coming up soon. We're almost to the cliffs; that's where the caves are."

Erik had told me that he'd been here before with a traveling show, which was how he knew about the caves – the performers had stayed in them for a whole weekend.

I said, "Wasn't it uncomfortable when you were here with the show? I mean, we're only going here because we're desperate to get to Italy."

"We had tents, wagons, campfires," Erik said, smiling. "It wasn't bad at all. And I was only ten or so; it was one of the best weekends of my life."

He gazed through the window, lost in thought, and said, "I remember we all went to the lake. There's one a few miles away from the caves; we swam for nearly the entire day. Mad Mercury was particularly happy because we had had a very good week. We'd earned a lot of money, and even managed to save enough of it to throw a huge party at the end of the night. I remember Tara – you remember Tara, she was like my older sister – she made a chocolate cake."

It was rare for Erik to talk about his childhood, so I listened intently. I knew his parents had left him in the middle of the forest when he was barely a few weeks old. His parents hadn't wanted a baby, and so the disgusting cowards had left him to die. Luckily, a group of gypsies had arrived hours later, found him, and taken him in.

The Circusmaster had always been interested in new recruits.

I closed my eyes, listening to Erik's tale of how a dead goose, plucked and shiny and ready for the fire, had suddenly come back to life and shocked everyone by running around naked, squawking in terror. Apparently the cook hadn't hit it hard enough to kill it; the performers, shouting with laughter, had finally caught the poor thing and killed it correctly.

* * *

><p><em>Later…<em>

* * *

><p>"Well, we're here," Erik said, standing in the middle of the cavern.<p>

We had crawled (my poor skirts were now ruined) through a rocky tunnel, the entrance of which was hidden by trees, mulch, and spiderwebs; and come out into a small cave. Erik, who had gone in first, held up his lantern to survey the inside of the cave. He promptly pointed at another opening in the opposite wall.

"Through here," he said, and started towards it. Dutifully, Nadir and I followed him through – Nadir sighed and pulled a clump of spiderwebs from his hair as he bent over to fit inside the hole. I grimaced, put an arm over my face to protect my eyes, and soldiered on after him.

When Nadir and I emerged into the cavern (because it was so large that it could be called nothing else), Erik was standing in the center, the lantern at his feet. The ground, littered with white droppings, was a long expanse of messy moss, dirt, and stones. Something rustled in a dark alcove twenty yards away, rather a lot of somethings; I thought of bats. Quickly, I turned my mind to something else.

"Natural light," I said, looking up at the ceiling, where dusty sunlight filtered through cracks in the grimy stone. "Interesting."

Nadir, who had been examining the knees of his new black pants (we had bought more clothing in Reims), lifted his head to stare at me.

"Lovely," he said, a bit sardonically. "Caves are so pleasant and homey. I would like to have lunch now. Outside, if you please."

"You don't like nature?" Erik inquired, gazing around the cave with an air of bright interest. "And here I thought you hated the fact that I lived in Paris."

"You live _under _Paris," Nadir said, and went back towards the hole in the wall. "And of course you'd like caves – you live in one."

* * *

><p>Erik, after a small argument with Nadir about what <em>truly<em> constituted a cave, agreed to have lunch. All of us trouped back outside into the fresh air. I was happy, because I had had no intention of having my nice lunch in the middle of a dirty cave – at least, not while the sun was up and while there was no one (yet) after us.

We had cold tea, beef sandwiches, cherries, and a chocolate tart, courtesy of the Reims Hotel. To my relief, Erik's appetite was completely back – he ate with as much gusto as he had done in a week ago. Afterwards, we sprawled under the overhanging branches of a giant oak tree, full of food, sleepy, and content.

I read my new book, a cheap mystery I had bought during one of our stops, sitting enthroned upon the blanket. Erik had insisted I should sit on it, and refused all arguments to the contrary.

He lay in the grass, his head on his hand, occupied with his sketchbook. From time to time he'd tap his quill against his chin in thought, and ink would drip onto his collar, flecking the white fabric with black. This seemed to be a common habit. I had seen other shirts of his spotted in an similar fashion, and now I knew why.

His sleeves were rolled back, exposing swarthy skin (and a few white lines – scars?); his hat lay at my feet, and his new jacket had mysteriously disappeared.

Nadir was sitting to Erik's left, idly flicking his penknife open and shut, looking out through the screen of trees to the mountains beyond. He also held a book, but he did not seem inclined to read it. He seemed lost in thought.

* * *

><p>"Erik," I said, after an hour or so had passed, "where is that medicine kit you bought?"<p>

Erik looked up from his sketchbook, a line drawing of a tree peeking out from under his left hand. "In the carriage. You want to change my bandages _now_?"

"A good idea, I think," Nadir said, flicking his penknife closed. He stretched his arms up over his hand, yawned widely, and added, "If we do it tonight, we'd have to find quite a lot of candles to see your injuries by."

Erik sighed and closed his sketchbook.

Nadir took this for a yes – he stood, and went to dig the kit out of the back of the carriage. I put my book down and looked at Erik.

"I don't suppose you'd help me out of my shirt?" he asked, his eyes roguish. "It's rather difficult to undo the buttons nowadays, with my battle wounds and all."

I felt myself blush. "Only if you wipe that expression off your face."

He blinked innocently up at me. "What do you mean?"

"Oh, stop it," I said. "Come over here if you want me to help."

Erik obliged immediately.

* * *

><p>When Nadir came back, Erik had been divested of his shirt, and I had made him lie down on the blanket.<p>

"You'll need water," Erik said, as I stared at the mass of crusty bandages covering his entire back. The strips of linen were crusted with dried blood, and a particularly ugly spot near his waist seemed to be infected – the dried liquid there was a horrible green-yellow. "And scissors."

Nadir set the leather kit down on the edge of the blanket, his eyes on Erik's back. After a moment of silence, he found his voice.

"There's scissors in here," he said. "And other sterilized tools. Irene, I tried to find the flask of boiled water, but I think it's in your suitcase…"

I understood. As a gentleman should, he hadn't wanted to go poking about in a woman's suitcase. I got to my feet.

"I'll get it."

* * *

><p>I returned minutes later to find that Nadir had begun the delicate process of snipping the bandages loose from Erik's skin. They seemed to have molded to his flesh, and I did not envy Nadir his job. After setting a pile of clean rags on the blanket, I unscrewed the top of the flask and dipped a rag inside. Nadir looked up from his work.<p>

"You can clean this shoulder," he said, indicating a portion he had cleared. A few fragments of bandage still clung to the mottled, sticky skin. "Start with water, then antiseptic."

I knelt next to Nadir, brushing my hand momentarily across Erik's cheek before I started. He gave me a small smile, but I could see the tension in his jaw.

I brushed the wet rag across Erik's shoulder as gently as I could, wiping dried blood away. My rag passed over a few inches of nearly healed skin; and then it came to a long, almost scabbed fissure of bloody tissue. I hesitated, and Nadir laid down his scissors.

He took the rag from me.

"Use it like this," he said, dabbing at the fissure until the rag grew pink with blood. "You're only trying to get rid of the encrusted bandages, not cleaning the wound. That's what the antiseptic is for. Right now you can be as gentle as you want."

I took the rag back and tried again, applying it to Erik's skin with careful pressure.

Nadir nodded in approval and picked up his scissors.

I hadn't cleaned for much longer before a thought came to me. "Nadir, you've done this before, haven't you? I mean, you've worked as a doctor?"

Nadir continued to snip away at the bandages. "Something like that."

Beneath my hands, Erik's skin was riddled and striped with scars. Some old, some new, but there were many of both kinds. I wondered, not for the first time, how he had gotten them. Someday I would ask him. Someday soon.

"Something like that," Erik echoed, his voice tired. "We were in Persia. The land of death."

_Persia._

Erik had spoken of it before, but not often, and I knew it was a subject he was usually silent on. Something – no, possibly many things – had happened in Persia while Erik had been there, and I was not sure I wanted to know of them. If Nadir had gained experience as a doctor in Persia while he was supposed to be working as a policeman, then it seemed altogether very plausible to me that Erik's memories of Persia were not pleasant ones.

I continued to work away at Erik's wounds, seeking out the bits of crusty bandage pressed into his skin.

There was a bird in the tree above us; a mockingbird. Its liquid trills broke often into the golden stillness of that forest afternoon, and afterwards all I could really remember of that day was kneeling at Erik's side, my hands damp with his blood, the sound of mournful, plaintive birdsong ringing in my ears.

* * *

><p><em>An hour later…<em>

* * *

><p>We sat around for a long time afterwards, resting – none of us had wanted to return to the cold dampness of the cave. Erik, newly bandaged, had fallen asleep with his head in my lap, his dark hair tousled. I leaned back against the oak tree, dozing. Nadir was stretched out in the grass somewhere to my right, his faint snores adding an odd grumbling undertone to the noises of the forest.<p>

The mockingbird still sung; it was only after it had changed its tune to something more raucous that any of us realized we had company.

* * *

><p>The gypsies, unsurprisingly, insisted on bringing us back to their camp.<p> 


	33. Chapter 33: Trés Entrain

_Yes, this is a new chapter! Yay!_

* * *

><p>The three gypsy men, all of whom were tall and dark-haired with flashing black eyes, led us up an incline through the trees.<p>

Erik said quietly, "The Roma are very hospitable, but I wouldn't have brought us here if I had known they were camping nearby. I hope this goes well."

"Why?" I whispered back. "They won't harm us, will they?"

"Probably not," Erik said. "The Roma's strongest method of attack is exile."

Nadir said, "I suppose they don't use those knifes in their belts?"

The three Roma all had weapons; there was a bow in the tallest man's hand and a full quiver slung over his shoulder. He glanced back at us, an amused glint in his eye.

Erik scoffed. "The Roma are hunters, and a nonviolent people with a strong code of honor. They consider outsiders to be the barbarians, not themselves. And I don't blame them, especially after having met people like Linnet and the Inspector."

He said, more loudly, "I don't suppose you're taking us back to your camp?"

The tallest Roma man answered in a completely different language; I was at a loss to determine what he had said.

"Ah," Erik said, as if he had understood. "I see. Thank you."

I stared at him as if he had sprouted donkey ears. "You speak their language? You never told me that."

"I did live with the Roma for a long time," Erik pointed out. "But not with this group, of course. Their dialect is slightly different from the Circusmaster's people, but I can pick out important words."

"Well, what did he say?" Nadir asked.

"We _are_ going back to their camp," Erik pronounced, his voice bright. "They've invited us to a feast."

_Wonderful_, I thought. _At the rate we're going, we'll never get to Italy._

* * *

><p>When we reached the top of the hill, the guides came to a halt, and the tallest gestured to Erik, indicating that he come forward.<p>

Erik calmly stepped up next to them.

The tallest Roma began speaking to him in their language. Erik nodded periodically, listening to the unintelligible babble in silence. The four of them were silhouetted against the red-purple horizon. Soon it would be night.

Nadir said, very quietly, "I've heard that the gypsy people despise outsiders. It seems a little odd that they're inviting us to a feast, don't you think?"

I agreed; I had no idea why we were following them. It seemed to me like we were making a small mistake.

"I know," I said, turning a little so the Roma couldn't hear us. "But Erik knows what he's doing. We'll just have to trust him."

"Whenever I trust Erik," Nadir sighed, "I always seem to end up in a multitude of troubles."

I tried not to laugh. "Oh, then you are definitely with the wrong people. Trouble seems to follow me everywhere too. By the way, if the Roma are truly inviting us to a feast, we should be a little happy – we won't have to cook tonight."

Nadir shrugged uneasily. "Yes, I suppose that's true."

We waited in silence for the incomprehensible conversation to end.

* * *

><p>Erik broke away from the group after a few more minutes and came back to us.<p>

"They said they're unsure whether or not their leader will allow guests tonight. They want us to go down with them to their camp and show ourselves to him. He's picky about outsiders. They only invited us because they said that the woman in our group looked weary."

"I do?" I said, taken aback. "Well. I thought you'd be the one who looked weary, not me. Do you want to go?"

Nadir shifted from foot to foot, waiting for Erik to answer.

Erik looked at him. "Well, I don't mind. I think it would be interesting. I'm sure that the food will be good; the Roma are excellent cooks. What do you think, Nadir?"

"Are we sure they're trustworthy?" Nadir said. "And what about the carriage? I know we hid it well, but they might find it…"

"I doubt they're thieves," Erik said. "Besides, they think everything belonging to Gajes – people who aren't Roma – is unclean. So even if they did find it, they wouldn't take anything."

Nadir took a deep breath, steeling himself. "Then let's go."

"Irene?" Erik said.

I nodded. "Yes. Let's go."

* * *

><p>The camp was only a few hundred yards from the bottom of the incline, but by the time we had almost reached it, the sun had nearly set. Ahead of us, the Roma men were walking very quickly indeed. Nadir shot me a look of perplexity from behind Erik's back.<p>

Erik caught this, and smiled in amusement. "The Roma people do not like to travel at night. They think the spirits of their ancestors are walking."

His voice was lowered to a whisper, but I could have sworn that the Roma men had heard him – the tallest one flicked a glance over his shoulder at us and frowned.

"Perhaps I should keep my explaining to a minimum," Erik said, and fell silent.

The Roma men walked faster.

After a few more minutes, the trees slipped away behind us, and we stopped in front of a large clearing. It was surrounded by beautifully decorated wagons, each lined up end-to-end; a large green and gold one with purple trimming blocked my view of the rest of the camp.

The tallest Roma man turned back to us, and said, in perfect French, "Please wait here while we speak to our chief."

We nodded.

The three men slipped away between the wagons, and I realized that there was singing coming from the center of the camp – and what sounded like a violin, rising high and dreamy above the chirrups of crickets.

It was cold; I shivered, cursing myself for forgetting to grab my cloak from the carriage.

Erik unwrapped the blanket from around his shoulders and draped it around mine. I glanced up at him.

"You'll catch a chill," I whispered. "You're still healing."

"I'm fine," Erik whispered back. "Besides, you haven't been sleeping well lately. It wouldn't do if you got sick and left Nadir and I to fend for ourselves."

I smiled at his little joke; Nadir made a little noise of amused disagreement.

And a Roma man stepped around the side of the wagon.

* * *

><p>He wasn't one of our guides; he was taller and thinner, with hair like light honey. Behind him was the Roma man who'd spoken to us earlier.<p>

The light-haired man looked at us with piercing eyes, then turned his gaze on the other Roma.

He said something I couldn't hear – the other man nodded.

I leaned into Erik's side, wondering what the two were talking about. I felt grumpy. It was rude to speak in different languages when other people were present. Nadir seemed to feel the same way; he frowned slightly, the corners of his eyebrows dipping down, and raised his chin.

The light-haired man stopped speaking and turned to us. "It seems that tonight I will be entertaining guests."

His voice was clipped and foreign; his perfectly formed French was bombastic. I stared back at him, noting the slight ferocity in his eyes – this was not a man to be trifled with.

Erik said nothing, but he tensed a little, and I felt the arm around my waist ripple with muscle. I decided it was time to speak up, as the light-haired man – was he their chief? – was saying nothing further, and Nadir hadn't even deigned to reply.

"If you'll have us," I said. "Bear in mind that we did not ask to be entertained."

The chief laughed, surprising me, and took a step forward. "Joran told me that you and your friends appeared to be in need of help. Because I am a kind man, I am offering my camp to you for the night."

"Our belongings?" Erik said. "We left them up at our camp."

"Your carriage will be brought down here, if you like," the chief said. "I'll tether the horses myself."

Erik looked at me – I looked at him, but Nadir was the one who spoke. "Thank you. That would be very kind."

"Then, if all is settled," the chief said, "I welcome you and yours to my camp. My name is Landon."

"Irene," I said. "This is Erik, and this is Nadir. Thank you."

The chief bowed theatrically. "You may enter."

* * *

><p>We did. The wagons were merely the outside of the camp: inside of them, lined up like so many round white hats, was a row of circular tents. A huge bonfire flung sparks into the air in the center of the camp, and between it and the tents were the Roma.<p>

The women wore long, colored skirts of green and blue and yellow, with shawls around their shoulders and ribbons in their long dark hair. The men were dressed similarly to Erik and Nadir, but they lacked cravats and jackets and only wore linen shirts, their sleeves rolled up to their elbows. They looked at us, all of them, as we entered, and suddenly I was quite aware of my messy, half-pinned hair, and the state of my grass-stained skirts.

The chief looked back at them, hands on his hips, smiling. He seemed proud of his people, and I was not surprised. They were healthy, tall, intelligent-looking, and every man and woman and child was as clean as a whistle. I wished for a long hot bath and a hairbrush.

The chatter, which had died away as we'd arrived, began again. A few children ran up to gawk at Erik and Nadir and I, wide grins spreading over their faces at the sight of us strange people.

A tiny girl with huge dark eyes tugged at my hand, and I squatted down to listen to her.

She didn't know French; she said a long string of unintelligible syllables into my ear, grinning with a generous mouthful of shining white teeth.

Erik said, above me, "She said she likes your hair."

"Oh," I said, flustered and inordinately pleased, "thank you. Thank you very much."

Erik translated this – the girl glanced shyly up at him and away, her dark eyelashes fluttering bashfully over her cheeks, and said something else.

"What did she say?" I said, wishing I knew her language.

Erik squatted down next to me. "I think she wants to know if you're my wife."

"Tell her not yet," I said, smiling. "Tell her you haven't asked me yet."

"I'll tell her," Erik sighed. "But it makes me sound rather like a coward."

The little girl laughed when Erik informed her of this, and patted me on the shoulder with a thin hand, nonsensical syllables pouring from her mouth.

I smiled. "I think she's trying to comfort me."

Erik was laughing; he shook his head. "She just said that since I'm such a – oh, how do I say this – since I'm so slow to ask for your hand, you should look around while you're here and find a quicker man to take my place."

I snorted, and eyed the girl with a measure of admiration. She blinked at me, her cheeks flushed with happy amusement, and continued to pat my shoulder. "Goodness, she's a feisty one! Tell her thank you, but no thanks. I'm happy with the man I've got."

"Would you like something to eat?" said a voice from above me.

I looked up to see Joran standing to our right, and realized that something smelled wonderful. It was the tantalizing smell of fresh meat laced with aromatic spices, mixed with the smell of hot bread. My mouth watered.

"Yes," I said, "thank you. We would love to."

The little girl said something to Joran; he smiled and shook his head.

"This is Hanna," he said. "My youngest daughter."

Hanna curtsied, smiling widely, and I got to my feet and curtsied back.

"A pleasure to meet you," I said. Erik nodded in agreement.

Joran, smiling nearly as widely as his daughter, translated this for her. Hanna beamed and said something back to him, her high-pitched voice excited.

"Hanna would like to show you the best place to sit," her father said. "If you don't mind, of course."

"I would be honored," I said, and smiled at her.

* * *

><p>After Hanna had shown me the best log to sit on, and given me the nicest chunk of meat, and told Erik to ask for my hand in marriage as soon as possible, she went away to find me something to drink.<p>

Nadir sat down next to us, followed by a very pretty young woman with curling dark hair, her eyes a peculiar shade of blue-green.

"This is… Aryiane?" he said, looking to her for confirmation. "I think that's what she said. I can't understand a word of this language."

Aryiane said something back to him, fluttering her lashes with every word. Erik snickered.

"What?" Nadir said. "What is she saying? I think…" he blushed, "I think she likes me."

"You could say that," Erik said, grinning. "I am not going to tell you what she said; it is completely inappropriate."

He said something back to Aryiane: she widened her eyes at him and fell silent.

"What did you say?" I said, gnawing on my chunk of meat. It _was_ delicious; it tasted of salt and spices. A thin stream of hot juice ran down my chin. "And do you have a handkerchief? This is messy."

"I said I spoke her language," Erik said, digging in his pockets for a handkerchief. "Here you go."

He accepted a stick of meat from Hanna, who had returned and was dancing around the three of us with glee. She shoved a wooden cup at me; I took it, setting it down on the log (it smelled like whiskey) and smiled at her.

She smiled back at me, her teeth shining, and danced away.

Nadir was trying to talk to Aryiane; she laughed at his weak attempt to repeat something she had said and patted his knee. Nadir smiled politely, moving her delicate hand away from his leg with caution. He seemed a little uncomfortable.

"You have quite the admirer," I said, wiping grease off my face with Erik's handkerchief. "She seems very interested in you."

"_Too_ interested," Erik put in. "Very much so."

Nadir grimaced at me. "Oh, stop it. She's obviously drawn to my handsome physique and snapping wit."

"I'm sure," I said, laughing, and accidentally inhaled a piece of meat.

As Erik pounded me on the back (rather unhelpfully, I might add), Nadir put down his stick of meat and scooted farther away from Aryiane, who was edging closer and closer every minute.

When I finally regained my breath, I told Erik to stop pounding on me – which he did – and pushed at Nadir, who had moved so close to me that I was nearly crushed between him and Erik.

(Erik didn't seem to mind this, but I did. I enjoyed my personal space.)

Aryiane pursed her lips and stared insolently at me.

I stopped shoving uselessly at Nadir – who had absolutely refused to move – and stared back, startled. "Why is she looking at me like that?"

Erik chewed off a bite of meat from his stick. "I think she thinks you like Nadir."

"What?"

I had let out a cry of confused, distraught horror. Nadir looked at me, shocked. "Am I _that_ disgusting?"

"Er, no," I said, fishing madly around for something to say. Erik was laughing silently next to me; I could feel his shoulder shaking against mine. "No, Nadir, that's not at all what I meant! Clearly, _she_ likes you! She must think you are very handsome."

Aryiane, who seemed to have caught the thread of conversation, laughed and said something to Erik.

Erik stopped laughing and said something back.

Aryiane answered; I picked out Nadir's name from the rush of syllables.

I twisted around to look at Erik. "What are you two talking about?"

"She said that she sees the root of the problem now," Erik said. "She said that Nadir is very attractive. Then she said that she wants him to dance with her."

"Is there something wrong with that?" Nadir inquired. "Your tone is foreboding."

"It seems that in this particular Roma group," Erik said, grinning, "dancing with someone of the opposite sex is tantamount to asking their hand in marriage. Or… _something _like that."

I rolled my eyes at Erik and looked at Nadir. He had flushed a bright purple color as he digested Erik's word. Behind him, Aryiane was fiddling with the ends of her hair, smiling broadly.

"Er, no thank you," Nadir said, turning back to Aryiane. "I am quite happy being single. I… adore it. Erik, for the love of God, translate what I just said!"

Aryiane had taken Nadir's answer to be one of approval – she snatched his hands in hers and tugged him to his feet. Nadir resisted, but it was clear he was going to lose, for the fiddler on the other side of the bonfire had struck up a rousing, foot-stamping tune and Roma throughout the camp had leapt up to dance.

Erik was laughing again. "Too late," he told Nadir, "I think she's gotten the best of you on this one. See you in the morning!"

Appalled, I said, "Erik – please – save him!"

But Nadir was being pulled away into the gathering crowd of Roma, and within a few seconds, both he and his beguiling siren were gone. The fiddle rose high and piercing into the air; the crowd surged forward around the bonfire, and the dancing began.

* * *

><p>I looked at Erik. "Well? I can't dance this, but I'm sure you can. Why don't you go find a partner and-"<p>

"Really, Irene," Erik said, appalled himself. "No. Won't you dance with me?"

"I don't know any Roma dances," I said.

Erik grinned again. "_I_ do. And you can ignore what Aryiane said; I made it up. She did want Nadir to dance with her, but the tradition part… The tradition part I added on myself."

"Oh," I said, realization dawning. "Oh. Oh, Erik, you brute! Poor Nadir… He's going to be traumatized the entire night!"

"Forget about Nadir," Erik said, rising to his feet. "He'll be fine; he's been around me – and women – before. _Please_ dance with me? I'll teach you the steps."

"Oh, alright," I said.

* * *

><p>Erik was right; the Roma <em>did<em> know how to throw a feast. The smoke from the fire stung my eyes and got into my throat, but I did not care: Erik was a marvelous dancer.

My feet flew; my blood pounded in time with the driving, mad music; it felt as though I was on fire with happiness. Erik, who'd gotten into the spirit of things, spun me around in the midst of the Roma; sweaty faces flashed by in a rush of flame and giddiness.

I twirled for a heart-stopping moment, my hair spinning out around me, my skirts rippling around my ankles; and then found myself back in Erik's arms, laughing.

"Do that again," I said, trying to keep my voice steady, but it was difficult because I was shaky after the long spin. "That was fun!"

Erik chuckled and kissed me instead. I closed my eyes.

The fiddle was suddenly singing inside of me instead of in the air: a low and wrenching tune of love and loss and love, love, love.

_Love._

* * *

><p>When the dancing died down around midnight, I sat down on the nearest log and caught my breath. I had been dancing off and on all night; the chief had asked me for the last round, and seeing as I didn't want to offend him, I had accepted. Erik nodded at me and told me he'd see me in a moment.<p>

I glanced around the camp, trying to catch a glimpse of his dark head, and finally spied him next to the fiddler. Perhaps he was going to play; I hoped he would. Hearing Erik play anything was always a lovely treat.

And yes – the fiddler handed over his instrument with a grin, and Erik tucked the fiddle under his chin.

The first notes were pure and lovely; I let myself fall into the music with a sense of abandon, knowing that wherever Erik would take us would be somewhere beautiful, and the notes poured from the fiddle like a stream of gem-like colors.

It would be difficult to describe the effect Erik's music had on people, or to describe the music itself, so I will suffice it to say that a few Roma actually wept. By the time Erik was done, there were tears pricking at the corners of my own eyes.

* * *

><p>After the applause, Erik crossed back to me and took my hands in his warm ones. "Was it any good?"<p>

I could not believe that he was asking for my approval. "Was it _good_? Erik, if the angels didn't weep... It was gorgeous. Splendid. Lovely."

"Oh," Erik said, and smiled. He sat down next to me, and smiled some more. "I am alright, I suppose. Yes, I am good, aren't I?"

"It's nice to know you won't be getting a swelled head," I said, poking him. "I hope we won't have to sleep in the carriage."

"Carriage?" inquired a foreign voice. "No, my guests will be sleeping in our extra tents. We have cleaned them especially for you. But perhaps you could play one last song?"

It was the chief, and he was speaking to Erik. Erik nodded. "Very well. But nothing sad."

"We do not like sad songs," the chief agreed. "Play something… happy. And tell your other friend that he must stop running away from Aryiane. She is becoming insulted."

"Right," I said, getting to my feet. "I'll handle that."

Nadir was somewhere in the forest; I had seen him sidle away between two wagons a minute or so earlier. Aryiane, after a long minute of searching, had espied his hiding place and darted into the trees after him. Dimly, I could hear Nadir's voice rising above the Roma's conversations – it seemed he was trying to fend Aryiane off.

Well, I had handled women crazed with bloodlust – I could certainly handle a woman crazed with love.


	34. Chapter 34: Reconnaissance

_I hope all of you enjoy this chapter! Thank you for the delightful reviews you've sent me!_

* * *

><p>The next morning dawned bright and clear, the sun rising like a white-gold disk from the dark forests.<p>

Erik, Nadir, and I had left the Roma camp minutes earlier, bid farewell by a tearful Hanna, (an equally tearful Aryiane), the chief, all the men I'd danced with, and a horde of Roma children, shrieking goodbyes at the top of their lungs.

It was a wonder the rest of the camp didn't wake. It was also a wonder that my ears had continued to work. Erik had acquired a sort of forced grimace after a minute or so of the Roma children's cries, wearing it in lieu of a smile as he said his extremely hasty goodbyes.

I'd left Hanna a gift: a pretty silver bracelet I had picked up in Reims, something I'd bought on an idle whim. I hoped that it wouldn't vanish into another child's hands after I left. An abundance of money, I discovered, had a peculiar effect on one's desires. After the incident with the bracelet I had given Erik the purse and told him not to let me have it. (He had thought this silly, but he had kept it anyway.)

Nadir was in the carriage, asleep. I had convinced him to rest, as he had spent a rather long night in the forest. Unfortunately, I hadn't been successful in convincing him to come back to the camp.

Aryiane, furious with his rejection, had alternated between long bouts of sulky rage, and long bouts of wild tears. Furthermore, the chief had taken Aryiane's failure to court Nadir as a personal affront on his person, and Erik had had quite a time calming him down. For a while, it had seemed that we would _all_ be sleeping in the forest.

But eventually Aryiane was sent to her tent to rest, and everyone, besides poor Nadir, finally cooled down and found a place to sleep.

I was exhausted by that time; I sank down on the nearest object (a log) and fell asleep. When I woke, I found that I was in a tent, cocooned in blankets. My head was pillowed on Erik's jacket.

* * *

><p>And now we were both bouncing along on the driver's seat of the carriage, a few miles away from the Roma camp.<p>

Erik held the reins; I held my book. It was crisp outside, and the cool air felt good on my flushed and dirty face.

I desperately, _desperately_, wanted a bath.

"There isn't a city for miles and miles," Erik said, in response to my question about hotels. "I wish there was, but there's not. Perhaps… the stream?"

"No," I said. "I'll simply have to wallow in filth for the rest of the week. Streams in forests are _dirty_."

"What about lakes?" Erik said.

"Goodness, Erik, really? No."

We were riding above a lake at that very moment – the carriage was rattling along on a cliff trail thirty or forty feet in the air. The horses' hooves kicked loose pebbles off the trail; the stones fell in tiny arcs over the rocky cliff side.

I put my book down and craned my neck to see around Erik.

The lake was very beautiful: the glassy blue waters were undisturbed in the morning air, and growing on grassy meadows around the water were wildflowers. They shone vivid scarlet, cerulean blue, deep magenta, like colorful stars in a sea of green. I gazed at them until my eyes burned from the strain. Antoinette, I knew, would have loved to see something as beautiful as this.

We had to get to Italy; we had to find them. We _had_ to.

I settled back into my seat, wiping at my eyes with the back of my hand.

Erik glanced over at me. "Are you alright?"

"Just looking at the lake," I lied. "I'm tired."

I hadn't meant to say that, but it slipped from my lips before I could hold it back.

"You're worried," Erik said. "Me too. But we'll be in Italy within the week."

"They may not be there," I said, finding to my surprise that I was suddenly annoyed. He couldn't have known what I had been thinking. I was not completely transparent. "You know that. They may even be in custody; the police must have found the secret passageways by now."

Erik seemed to have noted my temper. He shifted a little in his seat, staring fixedly at the horses' backs, his jaw hard. "I doubt it. I built those passageways well. Even if the police did find the entrances-"

"- and even if they don't find them," I snapped, "Francis was badly injured. He could be dying – and we don't even _know_ about Antoinette! No one even knows what happened to her!"

"I _know_," Erik said. "Irene, I know! Don't you think it's just as hard for me as it is for you?"

I stared at the forest, feeling sick, angry, and tired. I knew that. I knew he was as worried as I was; it was just that he hid it better.

"Look, I'm sorry," I said. "I didn't mean to snap at you."

There was a pause, and then he said, "It's alright. It has… it has been a long week. Let's just forget it."

"Alright."

* * *

><p>We rattled along the cliff road for at least twenty more minutes before I saw something glimmering on the path up ahead. Something was in the road, something metallic.<p>

"Erik, do you…?"

"I see it. I can't figure out what it is. Perhaps an old bear trap?"

"Stop the carriage," I said.

Erik tugged the horses to a halt. "Get Nadir. I'll -"

But I never found out what he had been about to say, because at the very moment, a huge black carriage whipped around the corner we'd just taken, pulled by two very large black horses. I stared at the driver, and felt my stomach drop into my feet: it was Hansen.

Erik, responding to my scream, slapped the reins down onto the horses' backs and our carriage was suddenly airborne. Or so it felt – the horses had leaped forward so quickly that for a second the carriage wheels left the ground. We were off.

I snatched at the railing in order to keep my seat; Erik shouted something, but it was lost in the wind streaming past us. We thundered down the path, dust rising in clouds all around us. Behind us came Hansen – I threw a glance over my shoulder to see how far he was, and was horrified to find that he was only yards away, only seconds from catching up.

"Drive faster!" I shouted, but I doubted Erik could hear me. "Hurry! Drive faster! He's gaining!"

Then, as we rounded a second corner, the gleaming object on the path still shining in the distance, there was a cracking noise so loud that it sounded as though the sky had split open. And a huge tree crashed onto the path in front of us, its massive trunk sending tremors through the ground. I saw Erik's arms bulge with tendons as he pulled back on the horses with all his might, saw him grit his teeth in agony.

But we were too close, we would hit it! And Hansen – Hansen was behind us –

And then, milliseconds before the collision, Erik turned his head and looked directly into my eyes. I stared back at him, wondering what he was thinking – how we were going to escape this – he shouted something, but the wind was so strong in my ears I couldn't hear him.

Erik seemed to know this: he smiled. I smiled back – in acceptance of my fate. We weren't going to stop in time. And even if we did, Hansen's carriage would crush us. We were going to die. But at least we were going to die together.

Then Erik jerked the reins to the right, and the horses turned and leaped off the edge of the cliff.

The carriage flew after them, and now we were truly airborne, suspended over the lake for a long, breathless second as time stopped completely. I wondered if drowning hurt. Then we plummeted, and the water rose up to meet us, and there was a horrific crashing noise as the carriage smashed into the lake.

* * *

><p>Erik and I surfaced at the same time, both of us coughing rancid lake water from our lungs. The sun struck rainbows from Erik's wet skin and hair; my teeth had already begun to chatter from the cold. But I ignored this, pushing back my clinging hair from my forehead, and dove. Nadir hadn't surfaced – he was still in the carriage.<p>

Erik swam down after me, his dark hair floating in an eerie halo around his head. I tugged frantically at the door handle, but it did not budge. Pressing my face to the window, I cupped my hands around my eyes, and Nadir slowly came into focus. It looked as though he was breathing: none of the windows had been open, so there had to be air inside. He stared back at me, his mouth moving, but I could hear nothing. Erik took hold of the handle and twisted – it still held; the door had to be jammed. Then he let go and swam around the other side of the carriage, presumably to try the other door.

I didn't stay down to watch; I'd run out of air. I swam up to the surface; my lungs tight, starving for oxygen. Gasping for air, I treaded water above the sunken carriage, my skirts heavy with water around my legs. And in the distance, I saw that Hansen's carriage had stopped behind ours – and then I saw _him_, standing on the very edge of the cliff.

He raised his arms over his head and dived.

* * *

><p>With a feeling of numb panic, I swam back down to the carriage. Erik had succeeded in wrenching the carriage door open; it hung loose from its hinges in the water, swaying gently back and forth above the reeds. Tugging Nadir behind him, Erik swam past me, gesturing with his free hand that I should follow him.<p>

On the surface, I gasped: "Hansen's in the water! He dived in! We have to get out!"

Erik glanced around at the water: the surface was smooth except for the choppy patch of disturbed water where we were fighting to stay afloat; but he heeded my warning and began to tow Nadir towards the opposite shore. We were at least a hundred yards out. The lake was very deep here, deep enough to hide an entire carriage and still have three or four feet of water above it. I swam after the two of them, tearing at my waterlogged skirts with a free hand. The heavy material was dragging me down; I had to get them off.

Erik seemed to have forgotten this about me – he continued to swim, getting farther and farther away every second, Nadir lolling in unconsciousness over his arm. With one final tear, the skirts fell away through the water, and I struck out with renewed strength, thankful I was wearing a longer shift than normal. Now I was only fifty yards or so from shore, and three from Erik. I would make it. At least, I thought so until Hansen's hand closed clammily around my throat, and the other clamped over my mouth before I could scream.

I remembered his huge, paddle-like hands very well; I knew he could kill me as easily as I could crush a flower. I didn't have a hope for survival, but I didn't care. I squirmed and fought, digging my nails into his fingers, smashing my head back into his face, kicking out wildly behind me.

But Hansen, immovable, unassailable, never loosened his grip. His hand tightened inexorably around my throat, and he pulled me underwater.

Black spots crowded into my vision. There was darkness… and then… nothing.

* * *

><p>I woke on the shore to Erik leaning over me, water droplets shining like starry diamonds on his jaw and throat.<p>

"Where's Hansen?" I croaked. My throat felt as though I had swallowed broken glass.

"Dead," Erik said, without preamble. He pushed a straggly lock of hair off my forehead. His fingers were cold. "How do you feel?"

Carefully, I lifted a hand to my throat; the skin there was tender and bumpy with bruises. "Not very well. How did you – how did…"

Nadir's dark face appeared to my right, smiling. "Erik – after dropping me rather painfully on the shore, I might add – realized you were missing. After a little while, we found you. Erik… disposed of Hansen. When we got you out, we thought you must have been underwater for at least a minute – we weren't sure if you'd wake."

I looked up at him, then at Erik. His eyes were fixed on my face.

"Well," I said. "I'm difficult to kill, everyone knows that. And I think we should start thinking about how to get out of here. Perhaps Hansen's carriage?"

"Perhaps after we all dry out," Erik said, flicking his eyes down. I followed his gaze. Erik's cloak covered me from shoulders to toes.

"Oh," I said. "Hmm. Yes, afterwards, then. Perhaps someone could go find my suitcase and get me out a new dress."

* * *

><p>A little while later, Erik and I were tucked away inside Hansen's carriage, dining on raspberries, chocolate, and wine. Well, no one was actually drinking the wine – we were only pretending to, because Erik and I both knew it would be foolish to drink while on the run. Nadir, on the other hand, had no such scruples.<p>

He had taken an entire bottle with him to the driver's seat. And he had told us that he would never be riding on the side of a cliff inside a carriage ever again, which was why he was driving now.

Hansen had been a man of luxury, it seemed. The Inspector must have paid him well for his thuggish duties; Erik found a bracelet fashioned out of nothing but rubies and silver, and cuff links made from pure gold. I found a veritable hoard of money hidden under the seat, along with a set of throwing knives, several sedative darts, six more bottles of fine red wine, and a man's thick gold ring.

I sat next to Erik, leaning carefully against his shoulder (I thought he was still sore), and we talked. Mostly of happy things, not of Linnet or the Inspector; we refused to let their memories sully our time alone. And both of us let our walls slide down, revealing our true selves, and did not hesitate to let our real feelings and dreams be known. It was easy for us to open to each other things we had never told any other person. As I listened to Erik, and he to me, I thought of how our pasts had led us to each other; thought of the strange beauty of choices made that led to something we hadn't sought for, but that we now owned, in our love.

* * *

><p>Nine days passed. Nadir and Erik had mock wrestling fights (it was always a toss-up as to who would win); I learned how to throw a knife so that I could skewer a single leaf twenty feet away; Erik and I lay under the stars at night, discussing plans for the future; Nadir beat me at chess; I bested him at checkers. Every night the three of us would climb out of the carriage and go somewhere. Twice we built a campfire and roasted wildfowl for our supper; once we went dancing at the neighborhood pub.<p>

We told each other stories, argued over where we would sleep, discussed if Nadir was able to ride in the back of the carriage again or if he'd have to drive all the way to Italy. Three (well, probably more) times I lost my temper and said something rude; Erik, on the other hand, said rude things so often to Nadir and I that I lost count somewhere after the twentieth.

We had a running joke that if Erik hadn't said something mean by lunch, he was feeling ill.

In the afternoons I sewed, or took catnaps, or wrote in my new journal. Erik sketched me so often that I finally lost my temper one night and threatened to throw the blasted thing into the fire (he had sketched me drooling while I slept). Nadir intervened, and tearing out the offensive picture, he tossed it into the fire. Erik, as usual, said something irritable. Then everyone (besides Erik, poor dear) laughed.

The mornings would find either Erik or I dozing in the back of the carriage, worn out from a long night. Nadir would be riding up front, talking to the horses, or whistling. Or I would be sitting silently in my seat, staring out the window, thinking somber thoughts.

We did not know if the Inspector was truly dead.

We did not know if Linnet was truly dead.

We did not know if Nicolas was truly dead.

We knew that Hansen was dead, but we did not know if all of the other thugs had perished.

We did not know if the Inspector had been lying about his big bad plan.

We did not know where Antoinette and Francis were, and we did not know if either of them was alive.

When this happened, eventually Erik would snap out of his doze, find that I was staring blankly off into space, and attempt to distract me. Sometimes this worked (once he even imitated a duck for an hour in order to make me laugh – yes, an _hour_); sometimes it didn't. If his attempt failed, he would become moody. And I would become moody. And when Nadir stopped the carriage for lunch, or for another reason, we would crush him with our moodiness. Luckily, Nadir was made of firmer stuff. Optimism was his key trait, and he wielded it like a sword.

"We're almost to a hotel," he would tell me.

"You killed Hansen," he would tell Erik. "Didn't that feel wonderful?"

Well, actually, he wouldn't say that last part – he would say something equally inspiring, such as:

"Soon it will be lunch! How delightful."

And Erik would respond with a typically rude response, such as:

"Only you would care that much about lunch, Nadir."

Or:

"Your inane responses are slowly eating away at my mental facilities, Nadir. Please be quiet."

Or:

"If you continue to speak, Nadir, I will be forced to strangle you."

And the problem of moodiness would be solved, because I would have stifled a helpless laugh, and Erik would have channeled his emotions into something (more or less) productive.

* * *

><p>We reached Italy on the tenth day, and promptly registered at the Locanda Ca' Le Vele under our respectively fake names. Erik was Monsieur Demarque; I was Mademoiselle Robert, his fiancée, and Nadir was our friend, Monsieur Hirst. We went up the gleaming staircases to our rooms, followed by servants carrying our bags, and flung open our new doors with rapturous cries of joy. "At last!" we cried, flinging our hands into the air. "We have done it at last! Yes! We are <em>here!"<em>

In reality, no one shouted with delight. In fact, Erik only sniffed at the sight of his spotless room and slammed the door after the servants had tossed his bags inside. Nadir graciously thanked his servant and came to stand in the doorway of my room. He was dressed immaculately in a dark suit; Erik and he had donned new clothing for the glamorous hotel. As for me, I was wearing a light green silk gown, bought with Hansen's blood money at one of our nicer stops. I found the nearest chair and sat down in it, thankful to be in a place that wasn't rolling around on wheels.

"What time is it?" Erik demanded, pushing past Nadir to get into my room. "Get out of the way, Hirst, you are already bothering me."

I admired that he had managed to use Nadir's pseudonym even while annoyed. "Nearly eight-forty, dear. Soon it will be time to visit the gardens."

"Good," Nadir said, shutting the door. He had chosen to politely ignore Erik's rude comment. "I'll have to go dig up my yellow handkerchief out of my suitcase."

We were to meet Antoinette and Francis – if they were here – at nine-fifteen this morning. I rose to my feet, suddenly feeling very nervous.

"Good idea," I said. "And where did I put that green bag I bought? Erik, you still have your red cravat, right?"

Erik sighed impatiently. "As I have made known before, I am of rather high intelligence, Irene. Surely you trust me with something as simple as a red cravat."

"Don't be a loon, Erik," I said, digging around in my suitcase. Nadir had slipped out.

Erik laughed a little, and remained standing in front of the mirror on the right wall. We had hidden his scars with a lot of flesh-colored (and green, to hide the red) makeup; he looked very different than usual. I wasn't sure if I liked his new look. "Oh, here it is."

"Irene?"

"What is it?"

He was still standing there, staring into the mirror, but I had a feeling that he wasn't actually seeing anything. "Do you think they will be there?"

Oh. Antoinette and Francis. But how could I know? How could I be sure?

"I don't know, Erik. But we have got to have faith. We've gotten this far; we can keep going. And if they aren't, we'll find them. We'll find them if it's the last thing we do."

* * *

><p>It was nine. I sat on a bench in the rose garden, looking over my newspaper at Erik, my green bag next to me. Erik was loitering under a tree, his hands carelessly shoved into his pockets, his new hat askew. Nadir lounged three benches away, smoking a cigar. A corner of his yellow handkerchief peeped out of the top of his pocket.<p>

It was five after nine. I rustled my newspaper, pretending to read, but I was really staring anxiously around the side of it. Erik leaned against his tree, his eyes moving rapidly back and forth under his hat as he watched people pass, his red cravat very distinctive against his black jacket. Nadir was still lounging on the bench, but his cigar hung limply from his fingers.

It was nine-ten. I gave up on pretending to read and fidgeted with the newspaper instead, turning corners down and flipping random pages. Erik had begun to pace up and down under his tree. Nadir had collapsed onto his bench and lay with his head propped up by one arm. His cigar was smoking pitifully in the grass.

Nine-fifteen.

I let my newspaper slide out of my hands onto the grass in despair. Erik had tugged his hat from his head, letting black hair sprawl in messy waves over his head, and twisted the thick brim between his long fingers. Nadir was actively crushing his rescued cigar between his fingers, his face impassive. I glanced madly at every single woman, noted every slim man that walked by, but there was still no Francis or Antoinette.

Nine-twenty.

Two people crossed the grass towards us. The woman wore a hugely feathered hat that obscured her face and hid her throat from view. The man wore a cream-colored suit and carried a gold headed cane, his fine silk hat perched neatly on top of his head. The woman leaned gracefully on his arm; they seemed to be chatting.

And as they drew closer, I saw a blue forget-me-not threaded into the man's buttonhole, and the lady lifted her head, revealing a gauzy purple scarf.

With the feeling that I was surely dreaming, I leapt to my feet and ran across the grass, my heart pounding madly in my chest. Erik dropped his hat and ran after me, forgetting to look nonchalant. Nadir flung aside his cigar into the grass and ran after us.

I flung my arms around Antoinette, for the lady in the crazily decorated hat was she. Francis, ever the gentleman, shook Erik's hand (so heartily that Erik actually winced), beaming all over his dear face. Nadir offered his own hand to Francis, and all the men grinned stupidly at one another, like men always do when they have no idea how to express their true emotions.

"Irene, darling," Antoinette chided in my ear, "Running is so unladylike. _Do_ try to emulate me."

As we hugged each other, standing there in the rose garden, being gawked at by confused strangers, I realized that it was indeed possible to laugh and cry all at the same time.


	35. Chapter 35: Le Rideau Tombe

_Here is the next (and final) chapter, readers!_

_Thank you for reading!_

* * *

><p>The rest of the day went by in a blur. Antoinette and Francis told us that they had snuck out of Paris in disguises and headed immediately to Italy, thinking that even if we had been captured by mad cannibal pirates, we would manage to join them in a week – or even sooner! Francis had nearly healed from his bullet wound. He was still weak, but much less so, and he had regained his good temper. Antoinette's hand was scarred, but, thankfully, she still had the use of all her fingers. And to Erik's happiness, the two of them had brought Wednesday with them. She curled up on his lap and promptly fell asleep.<p>

For our part, Erik and Nadir and I found it difficult to express the entirety of our stay with the Inspector. Erik told his part in a monotone; he did not enliven the narrative with a discussion of his emotions at the time, or attempt to tell mine. Nadir had spent most of his time at the Inspector's locked in a dirty, tiny room, so his story was not very informative. I managed to squeeze everything that had happened to me into the space of a few short minutes; I did not want to ever have to say it again.

Antoinette, for her part, did not try to persuade us to delve deeper into the blood and gore of those days. Francis settled for horrified expressions and angry mutterings at the "evilness, pure evilness," of Linnet, Nicolas, and the Inspector.

When we told them Nicolas had had a change of heart (or so it had seemed) and helped us to escape, Antoinette blatantly called him a "filthy coward" for not having done so earlier. She was rubbing absentmindedly at the scar on her hand.

"Let me see that," Erik said, leaning forward. "Does it hurt?"

"No," Antoinette said, flushing unexpectedly. "No, it's fine. It just… it reminds me of _her_."

I thought of the scars on Erik's back. Erik seemed to be thinking the same thing; he whitened a little around the lips and nodded.

"I understand," he said. He settled carefully back into his chair, his face pensive. "Well. Well, it seems we can't go back to the Opera House."

"It's horrible," the Count said pitifully. "I loved that place. And Jeannette – what am I going to do about her? I can't go see her; I'm a fugitive – _from the law._ The law! I have _never_ been a fugitive before in my whole life. I've never even stolen anything!"

Automatically, I thought of the journal I had stolen from Luke's office months ago, and felt heat creep into my cheeks. _I _had.

Erik grinned at me; apparently he had been thinking the same thing. I raised my eyebrows in defiance at him, and said,

"Oh, but _other_ people have, haven't they, Erik? I seem to remember a certain letter or something that went missing from my room a few months ago."

"I wouldn't be talking if I were you," Erik said, grinning even wider.

"Stealing is against the _law_," Antoinette said primly. "I am ashamed of both of you, Irene, Erik. I have never stolen anything, and I never will. Now, back to the problem of the Opera. Is there any way we can remedy it? I, for one, would like my job back. I do not have the luxury of free money."

We sat there, each of us thinking, but there was nothing but silence.

"I could turn myself in," I suggested, readying myself for a wave of disapproval, "and explain everything… Well, except for Hansen's death. I don't know if that would hold up in court."

"Hansen tried to kill you," Erik said, steel in his voice. "He would have killed you, and then he would have killed us too. It was self-defense. We were justified."

"True," Antoinette agreed. "The law would uphold self-defense."

"And you can't turn yourself in, Irene," Francis said, interrupting this new conversation. "We already tried that, and it ended _very_ badly."

Erik scowled at me. I tried to think of a counter-argument, but with his baleful glare on me, it was impossible to come up with anything to say. I gave up.

"Very well, fine," I said. "Does anyone else have an idea?"

Francis looked at Antoinette, Antoinette looked at Erik, Erik looked at me, and I looked at Nadir. He hadn't said anything yet.

"What about you?" I demanded. "You're being awfully quiet."

Erik, realizing that I was right, turned his glare on Nadir. "You haven't said anything for the last five minutes."

Nadir shifted uncomfortable under our gazes and began to fidget.

I stared incredulously at him. I had never seen him fidget before; he was always so calm and relaxed. This was odd.

"Actually," he said, his voice very small, "I have an idea on how to get all of you back to the Opera. But you won't be happy about it."

We all waited.

Nadir took a deep breath. "I can clear all of your names. I – I am an undercover inspector for the Paris police."

* * *

><p>I am sure the reader can imagine the respective reactions from each of my friends.<p>

Erik promptly turned completely white and had to be restrained from leaping at Nadir (Wednesday, frightened, hurtled off his lap and into a corner); Antoinette affected an expression of angered disbelief; the Count collapsed limply into his chair, and I sat calmly and waited for the emotional storm to pass.

I had suspected something like this all along.

"Erik, dear," I said, "please sit down. You might suffer a heart attack. Antoinette, have a glass of water. Francis, _breathe_. Your face is purple."

Nadir looked at me. "You're not surprised."

"No," I said. "I have had my suspicions for quite some time. Nadir, I am impressed."

"You are?" Nadir said.

"You _are_?" Erik demanded. "Irene! The man is an imposter! A fraud! A poser!"

Nadir gave his old friend a look. "Really? I am your _friend_, Erik. Originally, I did come to Paris with the intention of meeting Irene and seeing you, but after I arrived – for I normally work as a private detective – the Paris police contacted me and asked if I would keep an eye on a certain Katelienne Laurent."

"Interesting," Antoinette said, who had cooled down. "And you said yes?"

"Yes," Nadir said. "I needed the money, after all, and I wanted to spend more time at the Opera. The police told me that if anything new happened, I was to report to them. I sent them weekly reports-"

"What?" I demanded. "About what?"

Nadir looked stricken. "Nothing important, of course. I wrote about how you went to your rooms at ten every evening, and how you wrote in the mornings, and how you disliked the current patron… Nothing personal. I left out Erik, of course, and I left out S.C.O.W.L. I haven't been able to send anything for nearly a week now."

Francis finally found his voice. "But what about the masquerade? And the banners? What did you tell them then?"

"I told them that it was clearly the work of amateur blackmailers," Nadir said. "I told them it was nothing to worry about. But… I did tell them who you were, Irene. I told them Katelienne Laurent was Irene Dubois. I… I sent your confession to them a few weeks ago."

"My _what?_"

Nadir looked warily at me. "I thought it would be best. They cleared you of all charges shortly afterwards. In fact, the only reason they've been at the Opera House for the last couple of weeks was to search for your blackmailers. They thought they were somehow connected to a ring of crooks they referred to as the Inspector's Men."

"No," I said, stunned. "They only wanted the Inspector?"

"Yes," Nadir said. He looked down at his hands. "But they can't have him now. I'll have to send them another report detailing our stay."

"Wait, wait," Antoinette said. "You wrote down everything Irene told you about Luke and the Inspector and sent it to the police? Why haven't you told us any of this? We could have stayed at the Opera!"

Erik said, "No, Antoinette, you couldn't."

He looked at his friend. "If I have this right… It seems the police were using us as bait. They wanted us to react in such a manner that we would flee from the Opera, thus bringing the Inspector and his people after us; they would follow and take down the Inspector and his group of criminals."

Nadir nodded. "It's the only explanation I could think of at the time. And I was forbidden to tell you about it, but I think it's time I did. I'm very sorry."

"We were _used_," I said, suddenly very angry. "And they never even came to help us! Where were they, Nadir, when Erik was being beaten? Where were they when he was _dying_?"

"I don't know," Nadir said. He seemed weary. "I don't know. I am truly sorry, Irene, Erik. I did not think this would happen. They stopped answering my reports after the masquerade; I assumed that they thought I was unreliable. But instead… instead they were only drawing us into a trap."

* * *

><p>Later, though Irene and everyone else had gone to bed, Antoinette and Erik remained on the balcony. Both of them had sensed that the other wanted to talk.<p>

"Tell me about Hansen," Antoinette said, gazing out towards the purple horizon. "I can tell it's bothering you."

"I didn't want to burden Irene with it," Erik said. He twisted his hands together in his lap; rose to his feet and paced to the railing. "She has enough to deal with."

"Maybe later," Antoinette said, calmly. "But she's stronger than you give her credit for."

"I know. It's… it's only that I don't want to hurt her more."

Antoinette waited for him to continue.

"Hansen was a monster. He deserved to die, Antoinette. But I can't get the picture of his face out of my head – the moment when he knew he was dying -"

She watched the back of his dark head, still waiting.

"And I can't help but think there had to be something else I could have done. Did I do the wrong thing? Should I have only knocked him out? But then, he would have come after us and tried again… He would have killed Irene. And then I would have killed him anyway."

Antoinette said, "Erik, think of it like this. You were protecting Irene; you were protecting Nadir. Does that not justify your actions?"

"I don't know," Erik said, somberly. "I really don't know, Antoinette. I've never… I could never… I never killed anyone before. And – I never want to again."

* * *

><p>The next morning came much too quickly for me – I was still recovering for the long nights we'd spent out in the open air, but after the third <em>very<em> loud knock on my door, I fumbled my way free from the covers and scrambled for my robe.

"Who is it?" I asked the room, catching sight of myself in the mirror and recoiling. What on earth had happened to my hair?

"It's me, Antoinette," said a familiar voice. "Don't you want to eat breakfast with us? We're all waiting for you downstairs."

"What time is it?" I demanded, now wrestling a gown over my head, ignoring the nightclothes scattered across the floor. "I think it's a bit early to be eating."

"Nine," Antoinette said. "Finish dressing and come down. We're leaving in an hour."

I scowled, thought of something rude to say back, did not say it, and finished pulling the gown into place. Of course. One hour. One hour! How come no one had woken me up before now?

"How come?" I cried. "I wanted to take a bath!"

* * *

><p>After I fixed my hair into something that resembled a bun, I came down the staircase and spotted S.C.O.W.L. sitting at a table in the far right section of the dining hall. Everyone looked rather chipper, and I forgot to nurture my bad temper and smiled at them. We were a fine group of people.<p>

Erik got up and pulled a chair out for me as I came up to the table. Wednesday, who seemed to have made the hotel her home, poked her head out from under the table.

"Thank you," I said, sitting down. "Well, everyone seems happy to be leaving."

"Italy is nice," Nadir said, "but it will be wonderful to be home, don't you think?"

Everyone heartily agreed. Francis banged his spoon on the table and declared, "Let's have a toast!"

"To true love," Antoinette said, raising her glass of milk into the air. Nadir lifted his own glass. Francis did the same. So did Erik.

I began to feel suspicious, but I raised my own glass of orange juice and repeated the phrase, eying my friends with trepidation. What were they up to? Happiness at going back to the Opera was one thing, but toasts to true love were another thing entirely.

"Today is going to be lovely," Antoinette said, digging into her plate of crepes. "Mmm, these are delicious. Irene, do have some. Chocolate, you know."

Nadir handed me a plate of crepes with a large, gleaming smile. I smiled back. We had all forgiven him for his deception; we all agreed that we probably would have done the same. And due to him we were going to be able to return, so no one was angry with him anymore.

"Strawberries?" Erik asked, offering me a plate.

"Thank you," I said, and took two.

Francis, to my confusion, coughed loudly and said, "Nadir, I think you're finished, aren't you?"

Nadir looked up in surprise. "What?"

"I think you are done too," Antoinette said. "We should go to the carriage."

She got to her feet, and picked up Wednesday; Francis did the same. Nadir dropped his fork and got to his own feet.

"We'll be in the carriage," Antoinette told me. "Don't get up, Erik; you still have your entire meal to finish."

"Oh, alright," Erik said, so agreeably that I stared at him. He never agreed with anyone. "Irene and I might be a little late."

Nadir nodded; Francis nodded; Antoinette smiled, and they all walked away. Wednesday's tail hung over Antoinette's arm, swaying gently back and forth.

I looked at Erik, who was eating so quickly that his fork was a silver blur. Then I looked down at my own plate, bemused. That had been the strangest breakfast I had ever had. And they had all left their plates half-full.

"After you're done eating," Erik said, his voice unnaturally hesitant, "I think it would be nice to go to the gardens."

"But the carriage," I said. "And our friends-"

"They'll be fine," Erik said, and ate faster.

I eyed my full plate, piled high with crepes and strawberries. "I'm not hungry, actually," I heard myself say. "We can go to the gardens now."

* * *

><p>We ended up in the rose garden. The beautiful flowers bloomed all around us in riotous shades of pink and red and scarlet and gold, their thick, luscious scents filling the warm air with beauty. I breathed deep, savoring them.<p>

"We don't have roses like these at the Opera," Erik said.

I glanced across at him. We were walking through the grass pathway, our shoes sinking into the lush green grass.

"No, we don't," I said. "We only have white ones."

"I don't – I don't suppose you want to live at the Opera your entire life," Erik said.

"Well, no," I said. "I mean, I like being near to your home, but you aren't… I mean, you aren't going to stay there forever either, are you?"

Erik stopped walking, and turned to face me.

"No," he said. He was smiling. "So you wouldn't object to a home in the country?"

"What do you mean?" I said. My heart was jumping in my chest like a flying fish; I suddenly found it difficult to breathe. "I mean, that would be lovely. I've always wanted to live in the French countryside; you know that."

"I do know," Erik said. "If… I mean, we wouldn't have to live in the Opera, if you wanted. We could move to the countryside, but still visit the Opera whenever we wanted. I could compose, and you could write… and we could be happy…"

His voice trailed off a little at the end; I felt my heart stop beating, then start again.

I said, "Erik, are you asking me what I think you're asking?"

"I don't have a ring," Erik said.

"I don't care," I said.

Erik knelt on the grass, looked up at me, and said, "Irene Dubois, will you marry me?"

To my great horror, I found that I was crying. I looked down at the man I loved, the dear man I loved, and whispered, my voice caught somewhere in my throat,

"Yes."

* * *

><p><em>Epilogue<em>

_It was a Saturday night at the Palais Garnier, and the first premier of a new opera: Aurora._

_Backstage, the renowned ballet instructor Madame Giry shooed her ballet girls forward, telling them in a whisper that it was nearly time for their scene. _

"_You'll do wonderfully," she promised them. _

_This was true, for she had taught them well._

_She gazed through a crack in the curtains, watching for the signal from the conductor, and instead caught sight of the Count. He was sitting in the third box, next to his new wife, Jeannette, and neither of them was paying attention to the opera. Madame Giry sighed as she realized they were kissing. And during the new opera!_

_It was completely scandalous._

_Two boxes away sat another couple, but this one was actually paying attention to the opera. Of course, they had a bit more reason to than Francis. Madame Giry wanted to watch the two of them, but the conductor signaled and she had to turn away to wave her girls onstage. Oh well, she would see them soon enough. It wasn't as if they would be leaving early._

_In Box Five, Irene clenched her hands together in her sequined lap, crushing the delicate paper fan she'd brought. She was worried about this scene; it had been the most difficult for her to write._

"_It'll be fine," her husband said, but without the normal edge of calmness in his voice. He was worried too. "I hope the music is good enough."_

"_Erik, quit worrying about your music," Irene said, still staring at the stage. "If anyone doesn't like it, I'll eat my fan. It's the words I'm worried about."_

_The ballerinas danced out onto the stage, their light tutus fluttering with their graceful movements, ending the scene Irene had been worried about. She breathed a sigh of relief._

"_Oh, no," Erik said, as the conductor missed a beat and the orchestra struggled to catch up. "Oh, no. Oh, no, no, no, no."_

"_Take deep breaths, dear," Irene said. "It would be sad if you suffered a heart attack at the premier of your first opera. What would Antoinette say?"_

_Erik muttered something rude under his breath. "It's your opera too."_

_Irene gave him a look. "Goodness, Erik. We're in company."_

"_The only person sitting close enough to hear anything is Nadir," Erik said, "and he doesn't care. He's too interested in the opera to notice. An elephant could fall on him and he wouldn't even glance at it."_

"_Of course he wouldn't. He'd be dead," Irene pointed out. "Erik, look – it's nearly over; the ballerinas are almost done!"_

"_Thank God," Erik groaned. "We may survive this after all."_

_He breathed a sigh of thankfulness, sank back into his chair, and Irene took his hand. They both watched as the audience rose for a standing ovation; watched as the Count march onstage to thank the audience for coming (he had been given back his old job as manager); watched as Antoinette curtsied behind her ballet girls. In the box next to them, Nadir had risen to his own feet, clapping enthusiastically; he glanced across at Irene and winked._

_She winked back. The diamond ring on her finger glimmered in the stage lights. Erik's ring pressed into her palm; he leaned against her shoulder. All around them were their friends, safe and happy and triumphant, and they were together. _

_It was a fine ending to their opera._

_**Acta est fabula.**_

_La Fin._

* * *

><p><em>So, dear readers, this is the end of the sequel. I may write a series of one-shots starring the members of S.C.O.W.L., but for the time being I am finished. I hope you all enjoyed this story as much as Ink, Invisible, and I want to thank all of you for reading and reviewing.<em>

_I want to especially thank all my reviewers: Venture Wood, 13sapphire13, Nonimouse, Kassandra203, Savor-Each-Sensation, Why Fireflies Flash, Velvet Rose94, CrossBreed777, LaLion, Feisty Fae Phantom Gurl, Kat, Readerlauren, RWolfe94, cynthiatophklepinger, AncientAssassin, phantomess300, xJill Lovett, Circe Visigoth, Madam Oakheart a Shisou Kamen, and FutureActressKS._

_You guys are the best reviewers ever! Truly. You are the best. Thank you!_

_Thank you so much for reading my sequel, and I wish you all the best._

_- Coquillage Atlas_

* * *

><p><strong>Update: <strong>To my newest readers – this is not really the end of Irene's and Erik's adventures. In fact, I am currently writing a third installment, **Rumors, Reemerging, **and you should go read it if you are interested! I hope you have enjoyed reading my stories. Thank you for stopping by!

- Coquillage :)


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